


Echoes of War

by Dark_K



Series: Ignite the Stars [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Star Wars Setting, Angst, Gen, Getting Together, Jedi, Jedi Stiles, M/M, Order 66, Post-Star Wars: The Clone Wars, Slow Build, Smutt, sterek
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-28
Updated: 2017-08-01
Packaged: 2018-11-19 23:40:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 53,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11324118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dark_K/pseuds/Dark_K
Summary: Stiles is on the run after Order 66. Back to the one place he never thought he'd see again, he finds more than he expected back in that planet.Now that the Jedi Order is out-lawed, Stiles has to find a new path, or risk losing himself to the Dark Side - unless he finds an anchor. And that anchor may well be his former enemy, General Grievous himself, Derek Hale.(Sequel to Eye of the Storm)





	1. Running

**Author's Note:**

> I'm back!!!
> 
> So, here's the thing - this one isn't finished. I couldn't do it in January, and I started college again because I wanted to change careers, and now I'm majoring in Architecture and, let me tell you, the workload is really overwhelming. 
> 
> But holidays are just around the corner, and I'll try my best to finish this one. Until then, I'll be posting one chapter a week until I'm finished (I have seven of them completed).
> 
> I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> This is a sequel - if you don't read EotS, you may be a little lost.

**Running**

It's very hard to run when you don't really know who your enemies are.

Stiles isn't really thinking — he's acting on pure instinct. Not even Jedi learning, not even following the Force, but just his most basic instincts of running for his life, of trying to be safe, to keep on breathing to fight another day.

The forests of Felucia, which just hours ago looked like an enchanted land, now looks threatening at every turn, and he hasn't yet stopped running to figure out his next rational step — he doesn't think he _can_ stop. If he does, things might catch up to him, and if he wants to live, he cannot think on any of that.

He cannot think of Liam’s death, of Ma'Som's shock, of Da'n'yy's pale features gone, forever. Of Scott causing all of it.

To be a Jedi is to allow people, even those we love, to pass from our lives, but this isn't... This isn't passing.

These aren't even honorable deaths like Alis-Sen and Eri-Ka — these are meaningless slaughter, mindless killing.

It's a final betrayal tied with a final salvation, and he has no idea what to do, where to go.

 _Trust no one_ , Scott had said — did that mean the Jedi themselves too? Did Scott kill his companions so that they wouldn't hurt him, did the stupid, mindless accusations that he was somehow a Sith had finally made the rounds, and they had received an order to put him down?

Would his Order do that, with no proof, no certainty that he is actually working for the Dark Side? Would they believe him to be Lord Sidious, even though he is too young? Would they think he is actually his apprentice, even though he’s been fighting away from Coruscant for the better part of the last decade?

He would very much like to say they wouldn't, that his instincts are wrong, and they would never, ever even consider killing someone innocent just to diminish a rumor, but now?

Now he doesn't know. Now he doesn't trust.

Trust no one, his best friend said, and Stiles intends on obeying that request, at the very least until he finds out what is happening.

That pain, what he felt after Scott had killed all the others: that isn't just the pain for his three companions falling, it’s something much bigger and whose meaning he is not yet able or ready to fully comprehend, because if he does know one thing is that the Force still runs through him, he still has it on his side, and what he felt — all that loss, all that pain — it can only mean something truly terrible is going on in the whole Galaxy.

Where will he be safe? Where can he go? And how?

Can he risk going back to Coruscant, and maybe get killed, in case it had been a specific attack on his life? Can he afford _not_ going back there, in case the Order needs him the most now, in this clear hour of despair, even if he doesn't know what the source of such despair is?

What should he do? What _can_ he do?

None of it is a choice he can make without _knowing_ : he needs to know more before choosing what to do — and, as a plan starts to take shape in his mind, he considers that if that isn't the most stupid course of action he can take, he hasn't yet devised a plan that is, but he must find out more.

He needs access to equipment that isn't compromised by the Jedi or the Troopers, who, he is sure, are still looking for him — he can feel them, agitated and distraught and out of sorts that one of them has so easily escaped.

He needs information, and for that, he needs a village, a city, a town, somewhere he can blend in, and find out some information.

He needs to leave Felucia, and fast.

He’s never been very good at blending in with the common people — he had never had a reason to. He was Master Deaton's padawan, everyone knew them — he can't remember a true stealth mission he had to take undercover, he can't remember how he is suppose to act or behave when everyone he knows and trusts is either dead, in Coruscant, or halfway across the Galaxy. It’s a true conundrum, and he keeps on running, not even knowing where to, because right now it’s his only alternative.

Stiles suddenly realizes he's relied too much on his Order for everything, everywhere, all the time — he has no idea what to do with himself now that he apparently has no support — no Scott to trust, no Liam to take care of, no Jedi Order to guide him.

He's thinking like a soldier, he notices — ready to follow orders and fight their fights without question. He's no better than a trooper, for all that the Jedi and most of the Galaxy assume they are expandable — he's behaving like a soldier. All that talk about being above such things, all that belief that the Jedi _were_ no soldiers, all of it, gone with the sudden realization that his one aim in life has become to do what he is told by the Council, and now that he doesn’t have that, he is lost.

 On top of everything he's seen, of everything he's suffered in the last few hours, it's one realization too much, and he staggers to a halt, breathing too fast to notice where he is, heart pounding in his chest too strongly for him to hear anything else. He becomes careless.

Careless enough he doesn't even hear the steps approaching until someone stumbles upon his path.

He finds himself facing a tall being, with a long forehead, his leather robes in tatters, and an insane look in his eyes. His lightsaber is at the ready before he even notices what he is doing, hyper-alert and afraid, as he’s become from the attack on his party from the inside. He isn’t sure if he should go in for the kill, even though that is what his instincts are telling him to do: Felucia is enemy territory, so far as he knows, and this is clearly an enemy, but he refuses to have killing become his first line of defense.

He doesn't attack, doesn't kill: _he is no soldier_. He will keep the peace, even if it's only his own peace, his own brand of justice and fairness, and he will listen. And if worse comes to worst, then he will attack — when he knows what this creature means, and why he’s running.

“Don’t shoot!” the being screams, arms raised in surrender, and Stiles can merely raise an eyebrow, slowly looking at the raised hands, and then at the lightsaber in his own hand — the man’s eyes widen just the tiniest bit, but he holds his position, “Please, don’t… they’re… they’re killing everything!” The Jedi doesn’t move, waiting for the other man to keep talking. His arms are still raised, but his head is shaking, and he’s clearly in shock over whatever happened to him, “Everyone is dead. The droids just started shooting at all of us, no warning, no nothing. Then the troopers attacked, and suddenly everyone was shooting _everyone_ there was no safe place, so… I ran.” His eyes are a bit crazed when he says that, almost hysterical, and very carefully Stiles lowers his weapon, approaching the man with measured steps, “I ran… Kali would kill me if she wasn’t already dead.” The last part is said in a whisper, and Stiles is finally sure that whatever is happening is bigger than him, bigger than a single Jedi, bigger than their whole Order — if this is affecting the droids controlled by the Federation, something terrible is happening, and he needs to know _more_.

“Do you have a ship?” he demands, and the man frowns at him — he has wolfish features, much like Deuc’a Lion used to have, not like a Kaleesh, but close enough.

“A ship?” the man repeats, his frown deepening, eyes going to the lowered lightsaber in Stiles’s hand.

“You need to leave Felucia,” the Jedi says, voice unwavering and full of conviction. Never falter, Master Deaton used to tell him, _believe_ in what you’re telling them and they’ll believe _you,_ “You need a ship and a co-pilot, so you’re taking me with you.”

“I need to leave Felucia,” the man repeats dutifully, “I need a ship and a co-pilot, so I’m taking you with me.”

“That’s great. Where are we heading?” Stiles asks him, turning off the blade on his weapon, but not securing it on his belt — he doesn’t trust the man with him, but he certainly trusts his ability to win a fight against him. He asked for a ship, he needed a way out, and the Force clearly put this poor creature on his path. It’s not as if he’ll be causing harm to the man — everyone in his party is dead too, and leaving Felucia for a less known world is the best anyone who’s survived the slaughter can possibly do.

The man looks as if he wants to question some more, but Stiles takes a step closer to him.

“What’s your name?”

“Eth’an.”

“Eth’an, you must leave this planet now. I’m the only one who can help you.”

“I—” the man starts, but his belief seems to waiver, and Stiles feels like screaming for a second — he’s never been good at Jedi mind tricks. Master Deaton didn’t like using them a lot, and Stiles never really had the temper for it. He doesn’t like controlling people’s actions, doesn’t like to try and bend their will, and in not _wishing_ to do it, all of his attempts are weak and doomed to fail, always falling a bit short.

But this is his only way out of here, this is his only chance. No matter that this man is a Separatist, and judging by his words, a member of Deuc’a Lion’s team, he is now alone, and scared, and Stiles could use that, because they are in the same position.

They have no time, they need to leave.

Closing his eyes, he takes a deep breath before opening them again, and reaching out a hand to put on Eth’an’s shoulder, eyes staring into his, voice firm.

“You must leave now. You must run. I’m the only one who can help you.”

“We must leave now. We must run. You’re the only one who can help me,” Eth’an repeats unflinchingly this time, and Stiles takes a step back, letting out a rushed breath in relief.

“Where can we find a ship?” he asks, ruling out going back for his — not only there were a few troopers guarding it, but it would be the first place they’d check. _Everyone_ is an enemy now, he can’t take any chances.

“We can’t go back to headquarters, the droids have taken over…” the other man pauses, frowning and thinking things through, “There’s Deuc’a Lion’s escape ship. He won’t be using it now.”

“How far is it?” Stiles asks, and they start walking again, heading East.

“It shouldn’t take us long, but we have to be fast once we get there. The ship is hidden, but uncovering it is bound to attract attention, and we’ll probably set off all kinds of alarms. We have to get in and leave atmosphere to reach light speed as quickly as possible, and, well, I’m not a pilot. I _can_ pilot a ship, but that is not what I do.”

“We’ll work it out.”

“Where are we heading?” Eth’an asks suddenly, almost coming to a halt, but Stiles doesn’t stop, so the man rushes after him, “We need a destination.”

“We can’t go to any Republic or Separatist worlds if what you said about the droids is true. They are attacking everyone, probably everywhere, and that’s not going to work for us. We need somewhere where we can find out more about what is going on.”

“I don’t want to find anything out — I want to stay alive,” the other man tells him, voice unwavering, “I don’t care about this war, I don’t care about any of it. The only reason I even joined Deuc’a Lion was because of my brother, and now—” he stops talking, and Stiles wants to console him, he does, but there is no time.

They have no time for mourning, for suffering, and complaining.

They need to escape and that is all.

He can’t allow himself to _feel_ at this moment, he _will not_ allow himself to fall to pieces while he’s trying to run, because this is not what Jedi do — and he has no idea what is really happening, or what the other Jedi are doing, but he will keep to his Code.

It is, after all, the one thing keeping him from falling to a million broken pieces.

“We could try our luck in Hutt Space—”

“No!” Eth’an denies vehemently, and Stiles steals a glance at him, seeing his face pale at the mere name, “I’m not going back there.”

“Alright,” he agrees, not wishing to inflict any more pain than necessary — people who escape the Hutts usually don’t want to come back at any cost, and he understands that. It still leaves them with the matter of _where_ they’re headed.

“There’s this place… Takodana. It’s in the Mid Rim, in the Western Reaches, uncontrolled, as far as I know it. It’s a good place for hiding — maybe even finding out information, if that’s what you need. It’s a good spot to disappear too. I’ve never been there, but I can probably navigate us.We’d have to go past pretty much every known trade route to get there, but if we can get to deep space…” he trails off as they keep on marching, eyes and ears paying attention to every sound and movement around them, expecting an attack at any time.

It’s probably as good as it gets.

“It’ll take us a while to get there, but maybe we can try and find out more as we go?” Eth’an prods, clearly wishing Stiles would just accept already — the Jedi considers his options, and finds none other.

He doesn’t _have_ options here, apart from fleeing until he knows more. He’s heard of Takodana, of course, but he’s never been there because he was a General at war, not a stealth agent, or a spy. It’s never been his mission to find out more about something — he is bad at that kind of thing. Usually, they send him in when the battles are drawn out, and need to be won. 

Plus, anywhere is better than where they are right now, and Takodana is as neutral a zone as it can be.

“Yes, I think it’s our safest bet.”

Eth’an breathes a relieved sigh and nods, walking with renewed intention.

“What’s your name, anyway?”

He thinks about lying — about hiding his real name, because Eth’an can turn on him at any moment now, can turn on him after they go their separate ways, but he doesn’t do it.

Not because he trusts blindly, or thinks Eth’an would care what happens to him enough to protect his identify if worse came to worst, but because if he is to die, then so be it, he isn’t hiding who he is from the one person helping him right now.

“Stiles. I’m Stiles.”

He receives a nod in answer, and they walk quietly after that, trying to avoid getting any unwanted attention from droids and troopers alike.

It’s not a calm environment despite the quiet, but it’s good enough to focus on the one task at hand, on getting to the ship and getting out, instead of pondering on the million things that have gone wrong in the past few hours — soon, he’ll find out more about all of it, he’ll have answers, and he’ll know what to do.

The way to the hidden ship is almost too easy to be true, but Stiles is betting the troopers’ priorities aren’t to find Eth’an or the rest of whatever Separatists might still be on the run, but finding _him._ They know what he knows, so their bets would be on him getting back to their own ship, or heading to the Headquarters to try and steal one. Him finding Eth’an may well be the one reason why he’ll be able to escape Felucia, and he knows he must. There are no other options here.

“It’s just through this path,” Eth’an tells him after a little over an hour walking, and now that he knows what he’s looking for, Stiles can see it too — there is a trek marked by distinct purple neon flowers. They seem to grow on an almost straight line for a stretch, and then circling a clearing covered in light green moss which glows slightly in the Felucian night sky. It’s a beautiful sight, and Stiles breathes a sigh of relief when it seems like they’re going to make it — that is, until the moment when, from the bushes and greenery around them, about a hundred battle droids come forward, and the two of them stop dead in their tracks.

“Go,” Stiles whispers at Eth’an, as the droids seem to form a circle around them, beeping orders in their annoying mechanical voices, cutting them off from the pit where the ship is hidden, “I’ll clear a path for you and deal with them, just go and get the ship ready. As soon as I’m in, we have to leave before the rest of them gets here.”

“But—”

“They are not here for you, Eth’an, _go,_ _”_ He takes a second to look at Eth’an, nodding at him before speaking again, “If you leave without me, I’ll hunt you down, I swear,” he says the last part as a joke because they both now know Eth’an _could_ leave him. He’ll just have to trust the unknown man from the opposite faction of a war to keep his word and help him.

Easy.

Before Eth’an can answer, Stiles gets both lightsabers he’s carrying out, and leaps towards the droids blocking their path.

After the first strike hits, it’s an easy enough fight, and soon there are droid pieces flying all over him, as he takes them apart one by one with no difficulty — they are canon fodder, distraction, until something much, much worse comes along, he knows.

He just hopes Eth’an will get their ship out and ready before whatever is coming arrives.

Suddenly, the forest is filled with the distinct sound of something _rolling_ through the forest floor, and Stiles huffs an angry breath: droidekas. At least ten of them, by the sounds of it, and he steels himself for a fight he’ll most likely lose when the wind changes direction, and the sounds of a ship coming to life reach his ears.

Breaking into a run, he jumps in, and Eth’an doesn’t waste any time in getting them up and out — a couple of shots from the droidekas hit them, but nothing that stops them from flying out and above, breaking atmosphere and reaching light speed.

They made it, they are safe.

At least for now.

**X**

Deuc’a Lion’s ship is a fast one, which makes sense, considering it was his intended escape route for when they poisoned the whole atmosphere of the planet they were in.

Eth’an, true to his word, is not a pilot by trade, but he clearly knows the ship well enough to get them into light speed and on route for Takodana without any major issues — the only problem is that Takodana is _very_ far away, and that means they have time.

There aren’t any immediate threats, there aren’t any enemies nearby, and, apart from the two of them, there’s no one else in the ship with them — they can eat, which Stiles does with gusto, he doesn’t even remember when was the last meal he had had before then; they can settle down; they can rest… They can think.

Stiles refuses to, though. He won’t do that, he won’t dwell on what has happened, he refuses — so when Eth’an seems to actually _realize_ what’s happened to him, when he looks like his whole world has come crashing down on his head, when he excuses himself from the pilot’s chair, and disappears into the back of the ship, Stiles lets him go in silence, and doesn’t go after him.

He stays.

He’s no pilot, no one would mistake him for a podracer any time soon, but he’s had training enough to keep the ship from going off course — he doesn’t really _need_ to stay in the cockpit for most of the time, but he does it anyway, because it’s something to do. Something to focus on that doesn’t involve the last hours, the past day. This is not the time for it — not yet.

Stiles is alone when his comlink gets an alert, and he startles — it had been silent since they left Coruscant, not even when he felt the wave of loss in Felucia did it alert him to anything. He gets it out of his belt and stares for a second, before activating the message — it’s a general call for them to go back, go home, get back to Coruscant, to the Temple, with urgency. He stares at it, and pays attention when the message starts up again, heart pounding in his chest. It’s not a personal message, he knows: this has been sent to every Jedi, everywhere — anyone from the Order carrying a comlink is receiving it right now, and is turning back, leaving whatever their missions are and going back to the Temple in Coruscant, but something feels… _wrong_.

Something is wrong about it, he doesn’t know if he should trust it.

Who sent the message? There’s no name attached to it, just a general call — if an enemy should have gotten their hands on the Temple communication system, this would be the simplest message they could send, and the Jedi would hear it, they’d obey: this is _their Order_ , their duty, their _home_. The Temple is their one safe haven, the place where they are among the ones who understand them, and don’t judge them. Where they can _be_ whoever they are, as long as they obey their Code, and for the Jedi, obeying the Code isn’t hard, it’s just their life, it’s as easy as breathing.

The Jedi would go back, they would obey — Stiles should too.

He plays the message again, listening to it carefully.

“We could head to Coruscant, there’s still time to change courses.”

Eth’an’s voice startles Stiles again, and he turns quickly to look at the other man — his eyes are red and puffy, and he looks as if a strong word would bring him to his knees, but he’s clearly trying not to dwell on his losses, and Stiles is grateful for that.

He’s never been very good at consoling people.

The Jedi stares at their maps and calculations — Coruscant is halfway through Felucia and Takodana, they _could_ land there. Eth’an could even leave him there and move on to Takodana as he clearly wants to do, but something feels off. Something in his gut tells him this is not what he should do, even though the call is coming from the Temple itself.

“I’m not sure I…” he shakes his head, looking ahead before going on, “I want— I _need_ to know more first. I’m sure I can find transportation back to Coruscant if I need to.”

Eth’an nods slowly and takes back his position on the pilot’s chair, staring at Stiles out of the corner of his eye.

“You’re a Jedi,” he says, but his tone is a question, and Stiles tilts his head to the side a little, not really in assent, but in a curious manner, because being a Jedi is what he _is_. He never thought to deny it — never thought he should, or that he’d have to.

He thinks back on not answering the call, and his heart constricts painfully, but he trusts his instincts enough to know he should to stay away for now.

“Why are you running from them, then? Why not ask for help from the troopers? They were in Felucia — blast, _you_ probably led them there. What is going on?” Eth’an asks with a frown, his voice betraying his irritation at the thought of the troopers, but Stiles can’t answer — he doesn’t even know how to begin.

“I don’t know,” he tells the other man, his voice quiet, because it pains him to admit he _does not know_ what is happening. He doesn’t know at all, “That’s why I can’t go to the Temple, or to Coruscant, why I’m heading off with a stranger, a _separatist_ stranger, for that matter, into an uncontrolled world: because I don’t know what’s happening.”

The other man stares at him for a minute, not answering — he appears to be analyzing Stiles, looking for a lie, or a reason, or a plot, and seems to find none.

“Is it you or the Jedi that are the problem?” he ends up asking, voice a little more understating, even if still irritated.

“I _am_ the Jedi,” Stiles replies, the answer burned into his very soul.

Eth’an huffs at the non-answer, but doesn’t push the subject.

They don’t really talk, but both are careful enough to get the other away from thinking about the day they had, commenting on a myriad of things and nothing at all at the same time — nothing of importance, but no silences, no dwelling, no mourning.

Not yet.

They are a couple of hours away from Takodana when Stiles’s comlink comes to life again, and his heart jumps in his chest —another general message, another call, probably.

_Stay away. Run._

He stares at it in shock — he’s expected many things in a message from the Temple, but not one to stay away, not an order to run. He almost decides to turn back and head to Coruscant now, because for a message such as _this_ to be sent as a general coded burst transmission, for _everyone_ , every Jedi, everywhere to receive it, it can only mean something terrible has happened.

_Stay away. Run._

Isn’t that exactly what Scott told him? Don’t trust anyone.

Run.

With trembling hands he deactivates his comlink, and puts it away in his belt, swallowing dryly.

“So, I’m guessing you are _all_ in trouble, then,” Eth’an says in a quiet voice, but Stiles barely hears him.

He is staying away, he is running —  he’s doing exactly what he’s been told, like a good Jedi should.

**X**

There are many places in the Galaxy which people like to refer to as an oasis, but looking at Takodana, even from high up above, Stiles thinks it should only ever be used to describe this place.

The greenery is abundant and lush, the lakes punctuating the mainland look like something out of a dream — it’s the perfect place to rest.

It’s also the perfect place to hide and, hopefully, gather some information.

Eth’an lands the ship, and they get out — Stiles pulls the hood of his cloak over his head, knowing that his robes might easily identify him as a Jedi, but cloaks and hoods are an usual enough attire that no one will look at him twice. They stand awkwardly beside the ship, Eth’an raising an eyebrow at Stiles’s hood, as they turn to stare at each other.

“Thank you for bringing me here,” Stiles starts, but Eth’an huffs, rolling his eyes.

“Yeah, because I didn’t notice the trick you pulled back in Felucia,” the man answers him, but his tone is more teasing than offended, “Look, I don’t know what shit you’re into. I don’t know what you’re trying to find out, but I hope you find whatever it is you need to find. I hope your… Order,” he continues, saying the last word in a questioning tone, going on when Stiles inclines his head, “is fine too. You helped me  — I wouldn’t have gotten past those droids without you there. So, thanks.”

“You’re welcome, Eth’an. May the Force be with you,” he tells the man, who frowns at the weird words.

“Yeah, sure. You too,” he replies, and disappears back into the ship again, probably to gather his things, and get to wherever it is he wants to go without Stiles around.

Eth’an seems smart enough to feel that being around a Jedi right now probably spells trouble.

Stiles takes a deep breath and walks towards where Maz Kanata’s castle is.

It’s hard to believe this planet, bursting with life and beauty, had once been the stage to a battle between the Jedi and the Sith. Ancient history, of course, which Stiles only knows from reading the archives when Master Deaton left him to his own devices in the Temple, and his thirst for knowledge got the best of him. In a way, it’s very calming knowing that everything and everyone can, at some point, given enough time, get better, regenerate. That beauty can grow where once horrors had happened.

Kanata’s castle is built upon the land where the battle had taken place, but one can’t really tell just by looking at it from the outside — dozens of speeders of every possible size and model are parked outside the entrance gate, and many others inside the patio leading up to the grand doors. Flags of every planet, every city, and every trade route hang on either side of the path, colorful and cheerfully trembling with the soft breeze, and its visage even manages to calm Stiles’s frantically beating heart for a few moments.

The inside of the castle is no less colorful, if immensely less beautiful — it’s just like a thousand others canteens around the galaxy: loud music, shady beings traipsing around, and many hooded figures clearly not doing any good to the world.

It’s all so mundane, so without rules and order that it makes Stiles dizzy — as a Jedi, as a General, as a Master, he’s known order his whole life. He’s known obligation and duty, and he was never one for frivolous affairs, mainly because that had never been allowed under Deaton’s tutelage, and he had gotten used to it after so many years training under the man. He now realizes he may be more sheltered than he had thought of himself as before. The galaxy is vast and immense and diverse, and there are so many things out there he knows nothing about, and doesn’t know how to deal with.

He looks around for a bit, taking care to keep his face and his weapons hidden, taking a seat at the bar, and ordering something he has no intention of actually drinking — he doesn’t need to have his senses dulled in such a moment.

Off to a corner, a HoloNet transmission is going on repeat, and he finds himself staring at it more and more focusedly.

A figure in a hood is giving a speech at the Senate, and no one seems to be paying much attention to it — no one seems to be paying much attention to anything other than their own business. He approaches the transmitter slowly, drink abandoned on the counter as he stares fixedly at it: the whole Senate seems to be applauding something or other, but he can’t hear what the hooded figure at the center is saying — it has to be the Chancellor, by his position, commanding the session, but his face is hidden, and Stiles feels dread taking him over.

 _Assassination attempts by the Jedi_ , reads a caption under the scene, and his blood freezes, not wishing to believe what he’s reading — he can’t.

They wouldn’t. None of them would — they are sworn to _protect_ the Republic, not to kill it. Not to kill the one man who represents it all, who embodies the spirit of the Republic as no other before him had.

 _Treason by the Jedi Order,_ reads another, and Stiles gets more and more confused — what in the name of all that’s sacred is going on? He’ll believe he himself is a Sith before believing his whole Order is corrupt enough to betray the Republic, the Senate, their whole government, their whole belief system. The Order is flawed, yes, but they are not the _enemy_. Blinded by their own principles, maybe, a bit too willing to believe that they are always in the right, but to the extent those captions seem to imply?

Never.

They would never.

Master Deaton wouldn’t allow it, nor would Master Kilgharrah, he _knows_ this.

He _hopes_ this as much as he dares hope for anything right now.

 _Safety. Security. Justice. Peace._ The caption shows just as Stiles sees the hooded person saying them out loud in the transmission, his mouth barely visible through the shadows of his robes. Safety, security, justice and peace the man promises the whole Senate, as he outlaws the Jedi and proclaims himself the Emperor.

As the cameras transmitting the pronouncement pan out, he can see thunderous applause from the senators — a few, he notices, stand still, faces serious, but no one speaks out and against the man.

No one speaks for the Jedi, not one of them raises their voice to defend them or their honor.

Outlawed.

They are outlawed.

He’s on the run from the justice system for _existing._

“I’ve always known those Jedi scum were up to no good!” someone shouts nearby and suddenly Stiles feels as if he can’t breathe.

Murmurs of ascent rise up, even as a few people try to reason them out, but the overall feeling is very much clear: there’s no love for the Jedi here.

Outlawed.

“You look like you need a drink,” someone tells him, grabbing him by the arm, and dragging him with her before he can really get his bearings again, process what is going on. He turns to look — the creature leading him down a corridor and around another, away from the many, many prying eyes in the main room doesn’t even reach his shoulder. She’s slightly orange, but vaguely humanoid, with deep, soulful brown eyes covered by thick glasses — she looks as if a strong wind would blow her away, and yet, the grip on his arm is steadfast and strong. It’s even more than that, it’s comforting.

This is a Force sensitive being, and Stiles allows himself to relax just the tiniest bit — maybe she can help him get back to Coruscant and set the Senate straight, it’s clear this is what he must do.

She pushes him into a room and closes the door behind them, shoving him towards a chair, and setting a glass in front of him with a grunt, before joining him at the table. She leans in, staring into his eyes, even though he’s still wearing his hood, and Stiles relaxes a bit further.

“You are in grave danger, and you’ve brought danger here with you,” she tells him in a clam voice, and all positive emotions flee Stiles again.

“I need—” he starts, but she just shakes her head, waving her hand, as if batting his words away with impatience.

“Oh, you won’t be the last — this is a known neutral zone, of course, and the Jedi won’t _all_ be stupid enough to fall into whatever trap someone set for them back in Coruscant — but you _are_ the first here. How did you escape? Where were you when it happened?”

“I don’t even know _what_ I escaped,” he tells her, voice quiet and just shy of drowning in sorrow — but he won’t, he can’t, _not yet_ , “My mission, I was in Felucia and the troopers—”

“An execution order. You may have been the first Jedi here after it, but you sure weren’t the first clone. Troopers talk. They _feel_ , you know, they’re _people._ _”_

“I _know_ they are people,” Stiles spits back, voice full of anger for a moment, and ready to apologize for his outburst in the next, but when he looks up again, he sees approval in her eyes.

“Ah, this may be why you were spared, then. Your trooper, he helped?”

“He killed himself to give me a chance to run.”

He doesn’t tell of the three other Jedi he did kill before doing that, and the woman doesn’t push him.

“I need information. I need to know what our orders are, what is happening at the Temple.”

She points to a wall behind him, and he sees another HoloNet transmission there — what seems to be a live feed from Coruscant, the Temple engulfed by flames, destroyed to its very core. Looking closely, he can see bodies in front of it: younglings, padawans too young to be off world fighting yet.

He feels as if he’s going to throw up.

“Darkness has risen, more powerful, and more pungent than I’ve seen in a thousand years, young man. The Jedi are no more, there is nothing you can do for them — but you can do much for yourself,” Maz’s voice is soft and almost caring, and Stiles lets his hood fall as he stares at her, not fully grasping what she means.

“Master Deaton—”

“Is probably dead,” she tells him in a no-nonsense tone, her stare telling him not to interrupt, “If they were in Coruscant, they are dead. We have a new Emperor, and the shadow of the Dark surrounds him like a cloak — not many will see it, few will realize it, but Darkness has the power and the control over the Galaxy, and all you can do right now, as a server of the Light, is hide. Run. Stay safe until you can fight back. Rushing into Coruscant right now will only serve to get you killed, and one more body certainly won’t make a difference against the Emperor.”

“But the people—”

“Blame the Jedi, as they have been led to do for many, many years now,” she interrupts him again in a stern voice, “You do not look like a padawan, you look old enough to understand these things — do you think it is a coincidence that the war has been dragged out for this long? Do you think it was purely fate that had the Jedi stretched as thin as they are now when the final hit came about? Do you think the public, the people, will mourn for the Jedi losses, or for the Jedi themselves when they can see peace in their horizon for the first time in _a decade_? People do not care for Orders, young man, they care for their own lives, and right now, what the Emperor has offered them is better than anything they’ve had in a very long time.”

“Safety, security, justice and peace,” he repeats what he had heard earlier, and Maz only keeps staring at him, waiting as he tries to make a move, “It’s not true,” he whispers, raising his eyes again, desperate to hear someone, anyone, even a thousand year old unknown pirate queen deny it, “It’s not peace, it’s…”

“Darkness,” she says simply, “It’ll be fear, in a few weeks, or months,” she pauses and sighs before going on, “When things get bad enough, the loss of freedom may seem a cheap price to pay for peace. It will take many years for the people to _really_ see it, to _really_ feel it in their skins, and even then, it’ll be a long, long battle, fought in many ways, for a long time. Right now, there is nothing you can do, but hide. And wait,” she pats his arm softly, an almost smile on her thin lips, hand still resting on his arm, “And fight back when you get the chance.”

She leaves him be for a minute, but Stiles doesn’t really process anything — he thinks he is, for the first time in his life, in true shock.

He has _nothing left_.

Nothing. His Order is gone, his Master — _all_ the Masters, all the Knights, the Council: they were probably the first ones to go.

Mordred, and Morgana, and even Merlin — all gone.

He thinks back on his last conversation with them, his strange meeting with Morgana who seemed to be fading away from this world — did she know about this, had she seen it all? Is that why she seemed so out of reach? —, his last words to Mordred, spoken in anger and betrayal, before he went off with thousands of clones, what chance did he have against all of them?

Merlin, who had stayed behind at the Temple, probably one of the first to be taken out.

“You need to leave, my boy, while you still can. Most of the people back out there haven’t yet realized the kind of reward you could fetch, but soon they will, and I can’t stop them from trying. The last thing we need here is one more excuse for the people to hate your Order, and have you killing smugglers or Bounty Hunters for doing what they are paid to do will certainly do that.”

“I have nowhere to go,” he tells her, realization hitting him hard, “There’s… there’s no one outside the Order, everyone… everything…” he trails off, eyes wide in horror, but still he sees Maz’s mouth twisting in displeasure.

“For beings who serve only the Light, the Jedi have some very twisted rules — did you not once have a home planet? A mother, a father, people who birthed you, who fed you until you were taken away? Were you not born from another being like all of us?”

Kalee.

No one would ever look for him in Kalee — why would they? Not even Stiles himself thought of it until Maz pointed it out for him. He could hide there, wait until the worst of it was gone, and then look for the other surviving Jedi — find whatever was left of his Order and rebuild.

It is as good a plan as he is going to get right now.

“I have no way of getting there,” he tells her, and Maz rolls her eyes.

“You are in a castle full of smugglers — I’m sure one of them will take you for the right price.”

“I don’t have a lot of credits,” he tells her in a hurried whisper, “The Order—”

“Usually took care of it all, yes, I know,” she tells him, eyes going upwards again, exasperated with him as if he was a misbehaved child. She stops and considers him for a moment, “This place where you want to go, is it far?”

“Yes,” he answers with no hesitation.

“Is it dangerous?”

He pauses this time, considering the question — in all fairness, he has no idea, he hasn’t really thought of his home planet in more than a passing matter in decades.

“It could be,” he ends up saying, and Maz smiles.

“I think I have just the person.”

**X**

_Just the person_ turns out to be the cockiest, most annoying, full of himself teenager Stiles has ever met, and he’s lived in Coruscant, the political heart of the Galaxy, and therefore, chock-full of entitled youth, his whole life.

The kid claims to be twenty years old, but if he’s a day older than fifteen, Stiles will eat his own lightsaber.

However, he _does_ have a ship — not a big, or fast, or a good one, for that matter, but it works and he is _willing_ , and Stiles can’t really ask for more than that. His name is Gwaine, and when Maz introduces them, he looks sullen and moody until she mentions _danger_ — then, the boy is all smiles, and is absolutely eager to leave. He takes whatever Stiles can pay him, and the Jedi starts to think that maybe this is Gwaine’s first job _at all_ , but Maz wouldn’t lead him into a trap, would she?

He looks back as he is following Gwaine to his ship, but the woman has already disappeared into her castle, and all Stiles can do is hope for the best.

“So, Kalee, huh? You trying to start a life as a mercenary?” the kid asks him once they are in the ship, and Stiles decides to indulge his incessant talking — better to talk to this kid than dwell in his own head.

 _Not yet_.

“Maybe. Just need a change of scenery.”

“I’ll say,” the kid goes on, hands flying all over the dashboard with a dexterity Stiles almost envies, “This whole thing with the Senate and an Emperor? And they’re saying the Jedi killed a lot of people too…” he trails off, looking at Stiles out of the corner of his eye, and Stiles knows he’s trying to fish for information, to see if Stiles is or isn’t a Jedi after all.

“Terrible business that,” he comments in a light voice, and Gwaine frowns at him, before continuing his prattling.

“I mean, Kalee is a bit of a dirtball, but, hey, if you’re into the wolf chicks, or guys, for that matter, it’s a cool place. I’ve only ever been there once — bad business with this lizard guy. His girlfriend was hot, though.”

“Aren’t you a bit young to be getting into trouble because of a girl?” Stiles asks him in a serious tone, but Gwaine merely laughs it off.

“Never too young for that — I figure, as long as I’m on my own in this world, as long as I’m the only one I can count on, I’m not too young for anything.”

The Jedi only nods at that, and lets Gwaine chatter wash over him, interjecting when needed, and starting a new mundane topic when his talking comes to a lull.

He’s never been alone before.

He’s not sure he likes the feeling.


	2. Kalee

**Kalee**

He remembers the landing strip.

There’s sand all over, but as they descend on it, he can see the meager forests that cover part of the planet far away — a place he remembers vaguely, maybe from a real visit with his mother, or maybe just a memory of her telling him about it. Kaleela is a sandy village, with short buildings made out of blocks of hard stone, and wide, glassless windows, where the breeze can come flying through. The tallest building is still the government building, still a pyramid with the top chopped off — everything is still orange, and red, and yellow, and golden; everything still looks as if they are recovering from a hard blow to their planet: he has no memory of Kalee being any different.

“Thank you, Gwaine,” he tells the boy honestly when he’s disembarking on his home planet, the place he was born in, and has so few memories of, “I’m sorry I couldn’t pay you better.”

The kid smirks at him, and winks, making Stiles shake his head.

“Don’t worry about it — now, one day, I’ll be able to tell I helped a Jedi escape the Purge.” When he sees how pale Stiles gets, he stops smiling, his voice going serious for the first time in the whole trip, “I won’t, though. Not now, not for a long time. Your secret is safe with me.”

He could just as easily be lying as he may not be, but Stiles is suddenly too tired to even care.

“Thank you, Gwaine. May the Force be with you,” he tells him and turns his back, listening to the kid going _Aha! I knew it!_ Before closing his ship and taking off again.

The sun is just rising and for a long moment Stiles stares at Gwaine’s ship disappearing in the sky, and then he is alone.

What is he supposed to do here?

He remembers his father was some kind of leader in the village, but he has no idea if the man still holds that position — blast, he doesn’t even know if the man will remember _him_. They took him so long ago, maybe he won’t even recognize Stiles, won’t remember, or care, who he is. He most likely built another family, has another wife, other children to take care of.

Maybe he won’t even want to have Stiles around for the possible danger he’ll bring — and there _will_ be danger, if the scraps of information he gathered in Takodana and through Gwaine’s incessant chatter are anything to go by.

He’s still trying to decide what to do when he sees three people slowly approaching the landing strip, and he steels himself for whatever is coming — of course someone would come to him, he is an unknown factor, a ship coming and going just fast enough to drop him off on a planet of little to no interest to the Galaxy, someone is bound to investigate.

One of the people is a woman — she has a kind face with dark hair and dark eyes. The other two are male — a nikto and a human who, when he gets close enough, Stiles can easily remember: that is his father.

He looks… shorter than Stiles remembers him, in a way that only children can, to think of their parents as big and strong and tall; his hair is grayer, and his skin is more wrinkled, but that _is_ him.

His father.

They come to a stop ten feet from him, and stare — the nikto easily shows he’s armed by standing threateningly to a side, as the woman and _his father_ assume a more calm pose, if still defensive.

“Identify yourself, stranger, and state your intent, or we’ll have to ask you to leave,” the older man says, his voice carrying with authority in the empty landing strip.

Very slowly, Stiles raises his arms, palms open, showing he carries no weapons in them, and he pushes his hood back and away from his face.

“I’m Jedi Master Stiles, and I’m here seeking refuge,” he tells them with the calmest voice he can muster, once his hood is lowered.

There’s silence for a moment when he and his father stare at each other, and then the man breaks into a run and pulls Stiles close to him in a hug like Stiles doesn’t remember ever having.

“Stiles…” the man whispers, still holding him close, his voice muffled by tears Stiles can’t see but is sure are there, “My boy, my son…” he says, and very slowly, Stiles reaches out and puts his arms around his father too — he remembers an embrace like this many, many years before: his last, if memory serves him right. He closes his eyes, trying to think back on what he felt then, what he should be feeling now: he hasn’t seen his father in over twenty years, he should be feeling glad to have his arms around him, elated for being home, but all he can think is that he doesn’t know this man, there’s no comfort in this planet, for this hasn’t been his home since the day he’s left it.

His home is gone — his home is burned down and painted in the red blood of his family, the one who raised him, who made him into what he is now. There is no comfort to be found in this desperate embrace, only the pain coming from the lack of it — he doesn’t _know_ this place or these people. He doesn’t _know_ them.

Opening his eyes again, he thinks he should back away from the weeping man, but doesn’t — let him have this one comfort even if Stiles can’t find his. Scanning his surroundings, he sees the woman has a hand covering her mouth to muffle her own tears, and the nikto looks startled and surprised, more than anything else.

It’s behind them, however, that Stiles sees the first thing that makes his heart speed up in Kalee: behind them, coming slowly, is the hulking figure of what was once a Kaleesh warrior, but who now looks like a cross between a human and a kaleesh.

Dark red eyes and deep black hair. Skin marked by scars and carrying himself as if he doesn’t know how to move without armor enveloping him is General Grievous himself — or, better yet, Derek Hale, the man who used to live inside that monster.

He comes closer and closer, until he is ahead of the two other people there with them, and Stiles finally takes a step back from his father, not once glancing back at him, eyes focused only on the new arrival, tense with the perspective of battle once again — this could be his greatest enemy just a few steps away from him, this could be his end, his undoing, the death of the whole planet, but none of that matters right then.

Derek Hale, the man who saved him, stares at him as if seeing a ghost, as if _he_ is not the one who came back from the dead, from the shell of destruction he had once resided in.

Eyes never leaving him, Stiles approaches, stopping a mere feet away, eyes at a level for once, with no armor between them.

“He saved you,” he whispers, one of his hands involuntarily moving to touch the General, but he stops the move in time.

Hale swallows dryly, still staring at Stiles as if he’s going to disappear if he speaks. He nods, ever so slightly, and Stiles can feel everything he’s been trying to stop himself from feeling in that second.

His last request to Mordred, the one he sent away in anger, who he thought didn’t care for him at all, is answered in the shape of the man looking at him in concern right now.

He can’t even think that this is not the time, he can’t even consider that he is not safe yet — a hug isn’t a promise that they’ll allow him to stay, but he can’t hold it in anymore, he can’t hold it back. He takes a deep breath and tries to find the last pieces of restraint inside him: he _has_ to hold it all back.

He has to.

These aren’t his friends, this is not his family, this is not his home — he can’t fall to pieces now, when he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to put himself back together on his own.

With a few more trembling breaths, he holds back his tears, and his sorrow, and his fears — Hale is still staring at him intently, as are the other three people with him.

“Do I have your permission to stay, sir?” he asks, turning away from the General to look at his father, who is still staring at him as if he’s going to vanish in the blink of an eye — he only has to look at the man once, though, to realize how stupid a question that is.

“I think I might have Jakh-Sin shoot your ship if you try to leave,” the man answers him attempting to joke, but Stiles can barely muster a half smile at that.

There’s been too much shooting at him in the past few days for him to joke about it for a while yet.

“Thank you,” he tells him sincerely, and the man beams at him, but Stiles has no strength to answer in kind, and his smile is small and broken, “Could I ask for a place to rest? I haven’t stopped in…” he doesn’t even bother to go on, because he doesn’t know — he hasn’t really _stopped_ since he woke up in Coruscant after the Battle.

He turns, staring at the man who killed two of his best friends, who led countless droids into battle against _Stiles’s_ people.

“How did you get here?” he asks before Chief Stilinski can answer him about resting, “Is Mordred—” he trails off, because if Mordred is gone, he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to hold it in.

“He won,” Hale tells him simply, voice soft, even if raspy — he speaks as if he is learning to use his voice again, “I’m not sure what happened after—” he trails off too, and Stiles realizes they don’t know.

The Kaleesh don’t know who they’re harboring — they have no idea this is General Grievous.

“What about you?” Stiles breaks his staring contest with Hale to turn to the nikto who is speaking for the first time, but with no shortage of ill-intent towards him, it seems, “How did _you_ get here, why are _you_ hiding?”

Before Stiles can try to answer him, though, the woman sighs loudly, and puts a hand on Hale’s arm — he flinches, almost imperceptibly, but Stiles sees it all the same.

“There will be time for all of that after Stiles has rested, and eaten,” she tells the men in a final tone, staring hard at the nikto in particular, “And Derek, you shouldn’t have come here on your own — you’re barely out of your coma,” she reprimands him, and Stiles can see him shrug slightly, the movement slow and deliberate.

“I heard you saying you didn’t know who was landing. Thought it might be trouble,” he tells her, and she smiles kindly at him, leading him away slowly.

As he lowers his head and follows her, his eyes are still glued to Stiles until they turn a corner, and then he vanishes in a street Stiles vaguely remembers as leading to their hospital.

“You can go home, Jakh-Sin. We’ll be fine,” Stilinski says. The nikto doesn’t look ready to just leave and abandon his Chief here, but he does as he is told when the man frowns at him.

Once he’s gone, Jon Stilinski puts an arm on Stiles’s shoulder, and starts leading him away, into the city.

“Let’s get you home, son.”

Home.

Home isn’t here — home is nowhere now.

He has no home anymore.

They don’t talk on the way to the house — Stiles can’t muster up the energy to try, and the Chief seems content enough to have his son by his side for now, and doesn’t try to talk either.

When they get there, Stiles is suddenly hit with a wave of memories he hasn’t thought of in decades.

The last time he had been to this house had been the day he was taken by the Yam’rii. His mother had been thrown against the wall he’s looking at right now — she never woke up again after that.

Jon takes him slowly to a door on the far back of the house — his room, he remembers now. Their house is almost glamorous compared to most of the houses in Kaleela, but it’s still a single story building, with a large kitchen, a living room with the usual glassless windows, and two bedrooms, one door in each corner of the living room itself.

He walks towards it, and stops to take it all in by the door.

His father follows him, and stops by his side, looking at him as he looks at the room.

“I didn’t change anything in it,” he starts, his voice thick with tears and sadness, “Cleaned it, of course, but all of your things, they are all still here.”

He sounds pleased with that piece of news, but Stiles can only stare at it all in wonder — he hadn’t been allowed to take any of his things with him to Coruscant, for the Jedi discourage attachments to any and all things: things, just like people, pass. You can’t hold onto them, you must allow them to go when the time comes. There is no use for possessions that aren’t useful to your purpose, he’s been drilled this his whole life, and now here is a man who sounds so very proud for having kept a shrine to his lost son in a room no one has used since he left as if it’s an accomplishment.

It isn’t.

In Stiles’s eyes, in face of all his upbringing, it isn’t, but there’s no reason to hurt the man who has agreed to take him in so kindly and selflessly.

“Thank you,” he whispers, and the man smiles at him again.

“You’re welcome, son,” he clasps a hand on Stiles’s shoulder, “Rest now. We’ll talk more once you don’t look as if you’ll keel over.”

Stiles manages a half smile, and watches as the door closes softly behind him. Turning, he takes only his cloak off, and settles on top of the covers on the bed — left hand on Liam’s lightsaber, right hand on his own.

He needs rest, he knows it, but there’s no reason to be careless — he is not home here, and enemies are everywhere.

Sleep takes him over quickly out of pure exhaustion, but he is still somewhat alert — he’ll rest fully when he has a new goal in mind. For now, restless slumber with weapons in both hands will have to do.

**X**

He wakes up with the thud of a door opening, and in a second he is up with both lightsabers lit up in his hands, ready to attack — it takes him a moment to remember where he is, and another to calm down enough to listen to the conversation on the other side of his door.

There’s his father’s voice, low, and quiet, and reassuring, and someone else’s: a woman’s. Not the one from earlier, but younger and less patient. Something tugs at his memory when he hears it, and he puts both lightsabers away in his belt before using the basin by the bed to wash his face before leaving his room — as soon as he opens his door, the two people talking quiet down, staring at him.

His father looks _elated_ , there’s no other word for it. The woman who is with him, however, looks in shock.

She has vibrant red hair and green eyes, a pale complexion that must be hard to maintain in a land such as Kalee, and an authoritative air, showing she’s used to being obeyed.

“It _is_ true,” she whispers, and Stiles takes another step into the living room, tilting his head to the side.

“Lydia?” he asks quietly, remembering the little girl he used to play with, the one other kid who was saved that fateful day by General Hale.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” she says quietly, eyes wide in shock and something else… fear? Suspicion? “I spent all day following the reports, and I thought…”

She trails off, and Stiles is suddenly more alert than he had been — she sounds as if she has information, important information, and he needs that more than anything else.

“What do they say, what do you know?” he asks firmly, but his father gets up from an armchair he had been sitting on, and comes between them.

“There’ll be time for that soon, son, but first you have to eat something.”

“And you have to tell us what you are doing back here,” Lydia tells him, her voice just as firm as his, now that the shock seems to have faded a little.

He wants to argue — he wants to tell them he has no need for food now, he’s gone longer than this with no food or rest, and he had been fine, but he needs these people’s cooperation, he needs their help, at least for now, and it’s not like he has anything useful to share with them at any rate: he can only gain in sharing his journey here.

His father gives him a small bowl with soup in it, and a piece of bread to go along with it, and he takes a small bite, chewing as he chooses where to begin.

“I was on a mission, in Felucia. There was a kidnapping from one of the Masters and his padawan,” he starts slowly, sitting on an armchair by his father’s, who takes his empty seat back, Lydia taking a small chair facing them, “The Battle that happened before left a lot of our troopers in a bad shape, so they sent me with a small garrison to deal with it. I got Master Da’n’yy back, and we were just headed home when we heard of plans to set poison off into the planet’s atmosphere — we couldn’t leave after that, knowing the Separatists still in there would kill _everything_ just so they wouldn’t lose control of the planet, so we turned back. We split up the troopers, and then—” he stops talking for a moment, food turning sour in his mouth. He sets the bowl and bread down on a small table beside his seat, and sighs, rubbing his eyes wearily, “The troopers attacked, and started killing. I escaped,” he mentions it briefly, not talking about his padawan, or Scott, or anyone else, “By sheer luck, I ran into one of the Separatists from the Commerce Guild we had been hunting, and he told me the droids had gone mad as well, and killed all of his party. He was the only one left. We took a ship out, and fled.”

He knows he’s left out almost as much as he’s told them, but it’s a good place to start. Lydia is staring at him in curiosity now, and his father looks troubled.

“They are saying the Jedi attacked the Chancellor, and had him killed. His right hand was appointed Emperor because of it,” she tells him, eyes scanning his every expression. Stiles’s face is like a thunder, and his voice is full of anger when he answers.

“We would never. You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“They said Deaton died killing Uther Pendragon,” she continues, and Stiles’s heart breaks even further — how is it that pain can continue on growing, even when it seems there’s no more room in him for it?

“He would never,” he repeats, every word a battle to come out.

“Did you know him well?” his father asks, noticing his distress, and Stiles nods, swallowing dryly and taking a deep breath.

“He was my Master. He trained me as his padawan, he was with me when I became a Knight, stood beside me when I became a Master, believed in me when I took a padawan of my own — and even if I hadn’t known him personally, Master Deaton was a member of the Jedi Council, he was _Jedi_. He would never mindless murder anyone.”

“That is not what the transmissions have been telling the whole Galaxy,” Lydia points out, her voice practical. “They’re saying he killed Uther Pendragon after the Jedi eliminated all of Camelot’s Royal Family. King Arthur, his Jedi sister, his heirs… all of them.”

“Then the transmissions are lying,” he tells her, voice quiet even if he is getting ready for an argument, surprised when she merely nods.

“I don’t doubt it, but that is beside the point — from what you’re telling us, you have no idea what happened in Coruscant in the past few days. What is happening to the whole Galaxy. Stiles, you’re being hunted down and killed for treason. You, being here with us, could get us all killed — they are calling it the Purge.”

He stares at her for a moment, remembering what Gwaine had told him earlier, before he left — the name is already spreading in the Galaxy. It’ll be a bloodbath for all Jedi who try to hide.

“They blamed everything on the Jedi, they are saying all of you went evil, mad with power. And after ten years of war…” she trails off, and Stiles laughs, quietly, bitterly, before answering.

“I know ten years of war better than any of you,” he tells her quietly, “I was there when it started, I was a padawan, fighting in Geonosis. I’ve been fighting endlessly for every single day of these ten years, every waken hour has been spent trying to end it — I’ve lost mentors to this war, friends, my family among the Temple. I know this war, Lydia, and the Jedi have been trying to end it for every single second of these ten years,” he pauses, and the tears he has been trying so hard not to let fall threaten to come again, but he has a point to make — it’s not the time for tears, _not yet_ , “So I know public opinion might tell you otherwise. I know the transmissions might be telling the whole Galaxy a version of the facts, but _I was there_ ,” he says the words slowly, carefully, willing them to understand it, “And the Jedi wouldn’t have betrayed the Republic.”

The woman is silent at that, and a moment passes when none of them says anything.

“Derek, earlier — you talked to him,” his father finally asks, breaking the silence, “Did you know him? From the war?”

Stiles realizes that along with not knowing _who_ Derek had been, they may also not know _how_ he came to be in Kalee — if what the woman from earlier had said was true, then General Hale was still recovering from wounds sustained most likely in battle — against Mordred.

“I knew of him,” he answers diplomatically, “Our paths crossed a few times, but General Hale’s story is his own to tell.”

“You’re hiding something,” Lydia tells him, and Stiles merely inclines his head, agreeing.

“I’m hiding a great many deal of things, most of them because, as you pointed out, I have already put you all in danger just by being here,” he stops, considering his options quickly, and weighing what Maz had told him about hiding against what he feels he should do, “I should probably leave,” he ends up saying, “You are absolutely right in saying I’m bringing danger here, I couldn’t bear it if—”

“I thought Jedi were supposed to be smart,” Lydia tells him in a very controlled voice, but her eyes are sparkling in irritation. Jon shakes his head slightly at her tone, but doesn’t reprimand the woman.

 “You don’t have a single chance of surviving out there,” he says, voice reasonable and firm, and Stiles can see why they would accept him as their Chief for as long as the people of Kaleela had, “And, please, be honest with yourself, do you have anywhere else to go? Anywhere else with anyone who would offer you shelter? This was your home, Stiles, we will always welcome you back.”

The thing is that he knows they are right — he _has_ nowhere else to go, that is why he chose to come here in the first place: because when Kenata asked, he didn’t have any other place in the whole Galaxy to run to.

Plus, he needs to find out more about Grievous and his reasons for returning _here_.

Morgana had promised him he would save Derek Hale, but that doesn’t mean he automatically trusts the man blindly.

“My reasons to mention how your kind is being hunted down are only to tell you that staying here might be the only way you can survive for longer than a few days,” Lydia continues, and Stiles nods slightly at her, showing his understanding, “However, for that to happen, you need to, at the very least, change your clothes. No offense to your uniform, but staying in your attire is screaming at the world that you are a Jedi.”

Stiles looks down at himself, and knows she has a point — his robes are the mark of a Jedi. They are also what he has worn for every single day of his life, ever since he set foot at the Temple, four years old, scared and alone.

“I have nothing else,” he tells her simply, accepting what they told him — he won’t make little of their hospitality by denying he needs it. The best he can do right now is doing whatever he is able to to insure their safety.

“I’m sure Malia will have something at the store,” Jon tells him, shaking his head, and waving his hand in a dismissive manner, “Derek seems to be in an equal situation of having no clothes, and you two are about the same height. We’ll head there later and pick some clothes up for you and him.”

“He shouldn’t be out in the streets, yet,” Lydia tells them, eyes going calculating as she stares at Stiles, “No offense, sir, but everyone in Kaleela knows who Stiles is, and not all of us can be trusted. If word gets out that your son, _a Jedi_ , is back here, it may jeopardize his safety and ours.”

Stiles stares at Lydia in a new light at that comment — she is smart and a quick thinker. He isn’t sure what he had been expecting — well, he was expecting nothing because he hadn’t thought of them in so long, but it makes him happy to know his childhood friend has grown in such an accomplished woman.

“I shouldn’t stay here either,” he adds, thinking things through, “If they do remember me, it’s risky to stay with you, sir.”

The Chief looks ready to reply, but Lydia beats him to it.

“Everyone will make the connection pretty fast if he does stay with you — but if he stays anywhere else, he should be fine. The two of you don’t really look alike, and it’s been over twenty years,” she turns to Jon then, her voice softening, “He’ll be safer somewhere else.”

“Derek’s house is still his own,” Jon says in a tired tone, turning to look at Stiles, “We can tell everyone the two of you got here together, it’ll throw anyone off your scent, and Derek’s, too, if he was also involved in the war. You’d have gotten here earlier than today — no one knows about your landing apart from us, Melissa and Jakh-Sin.”

“I remember Melissa,” Stiles says, vague memories of a nurse coming to his mind, “But can we trust the nikto who was with you?”

Lydia huffs a delicate laugh.

“We’d better, seeing as he is my fiancé.”

Stiles turns to look at her in surprise for a second, but inclines his head politely — he does have manners, after all.

“Congratulations,” he tells her quietly, and she smiles at him.

“So, it’s decided. You can stay with Derek, and we tell everyone you two got here together. You weren’t as injured in the crash landing, which is why you’re not at the hospital. People still remember Derek, they trust him, this will help us hide you.”

Lydia and his father keep talking out the details about his staying with the General, but all Stiles can think of is how much danger he is actually in — from the whole Galaxy, apparently, but safe enough if he’s in Kalee, being hidden by Kaleela’s Chief and his right-hand, but how safe will he be with General Grievous?

Even that, however, has its positive side — by living with him, Stiles may be able to gather how changed he actually is, or if he is still planning on killing them all. Now that the war is apparently over — and how stupid are the people from the Galaxy by not seeing that both sides lost, and a third one is claiming the prize for their ten years of suffering? —, is he still a threat?

Has Mordred actually saved him, or did he just delay the inevitable, and it’ll be up to Stiles to finish the General off?

“I’ll come by later to take you to Derek’s house, then,” Lydia is saying when Stiles starts paying attention to the conversation again.

“You can borrow some of my clothes until we find something else for you,” his father says, “They’ll be on the short side, but it’ll do.”

“Are you sure General Hale will go along with it? He might not want to share a house with—” he stops himself from saying _the enemy_ , because they are not enemies anymore, are they?

Even if he is still the same General who killed Alis-Sen and Eri-Ka, their war is over: there are no more Separatists for there is no more Republic.

The immensity of it starts to dawn on Stiles, and he pales, gaining a concerned look from his father.

“You ok, son?” he asks, hand going to rest on Stiles’s arm, and he nods, shaking the feeling away.

“I’m fine, thank you. Just… thank you. For the plan, and for hiding me, and helping me. I know you don’t have to—”

“You’re my son,” his father interrupts, a frown marring his features, “Of course I will help you. Always.”

He can only nod in response, and Lydia turns to leave, although she’s staring at him as if he’s a hard puzzle she can’t quite figure out.

“I’ll head to the hospital, and talk to Melissa and Hale. I’m sure he’ll be fine with sharing his house. I’ll be back later.”

She leaves, and he’s left with his father, who looks as if he doesn’t know what to do or how to act now — Stiles has no idea either.

“Come on, I’ll get you some clothes,” the man ends up saying, and Stiles heads to the room that used to be his when he was a small child. He stops once he’s inside and looks into a small mirror at the far corner, taking in his own appearance — tall and broad-shouldered, hair cut short, but sticking up everywhere now, from running and flying half way across the galaxy on no significant sleep. 

His robes are gray — he remembers choosing them as a small kid, the day he arrived at the Temple: a light gray, almost icy in its look. He chose it because it was the most different thing he could find from the place he had been taken from. He thought that if he could look so different from his planet, then he would feel different, and he wouldn’t feel so alone, so abandoned.

It had worked, too — he feels comfortable in these clothes, he feels like himself in this uniform. He chose every item on his person, he built every bit of his lightsaber: he’s never lost Roscoe, not even once. He chose the color of his cloak, and every clasp on his utility belt. He built Roscoe from nothing but meditation and rough materials, he didn’t stop until his blade was the perfect shade of indigo blue he had always envisioned as his own when he trained with mock weapons and floating little balls under Master Kilgharrah’s tutelage. He had made the clasp on his cloak with his own talents, had received a smile and a pat of encouragement from Master Peter when he had done it.

It’s just a uniform, he knows this — it’s just clothes, possessions, not to get attached to, and up until this moment he never had: there was always more of this very same uniform, in these very same shades. If his cloak tore, or got burned, or lost, there was always a replacement, looking just the same. If his robes got dirty, or wet, or tearing at the seams, there was always another waiting for him in his quarters, and now… Now it’s all burned to the ground.

His rooms, his first taste of independence after the battle of Haruun Kal. The first place he had called his own ever since leaving this one room right here. The place he had learned to share with Liam, where they had talked way into the night before leaving for battles, where his padawan had stood, just days before, asking for comfort. Where Scott had stood by his side, had broken his own protocols to tell him of the gossip running through the Temple.

All gone. Burned down, and why?

By whom?

“I’m not sure about how the Jedi do it,” his father says from behind him, startling Stiles out of his brooding, “But to change clothes, we common folks usually take off our old ones,” the man completes in a joking manner, setting some simple pants and a tunic on the bed.

“I just…” he trails off, staring at the simple brown work pants and the beige linen tunic before looking at his father. He can trust this man, can’t he? He has to, if he wants to believe he’ll survive this. He must, if he wants to keep his sanity until the Force can show him a new path to his life, “When we get to the Temple, in Coruscant, they give us a choice of robes, and of cloaks, and we tend to keep to them. Some of us change, with time. I know… knew this one Knight who used to wear light brown and beige, and nowadays he wears dark browns and blacks, but most of us keep it. I chose this,” he gestures to his outfit, “when I was four years old. I never changed it. I built it, added things to my belt with every passing training, bettered some things I could when I learned how to, I… I _made_ this into who I am when I look in the mirror. To take it all off, to strip it all away, it seems…” he stops, shakes his head and goes to the bed, “It sounds stupid saying it out loud. I didn’t expect to feel this emotional over clothes. I sound like a politician.”

He sits heavily on the bed and sighs, putting his head on his hands, controlling his breathing, hoping to calm the storm in his chest. Not a minute later, he feels the bed dip beside him, and a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“I know there’s a lot you’re not telling us, and I respect that — you don’t know us, Stiles. You had another home,” he sighs deeply before going on, “It’s different for us, for _me —_ you were taken when you were four years old, and I had just lost your mother when I lost you too, so having you here is akin to having all of my dreams coming true, but I can see it in your eyes that if you had _any_ other option left, you wouldn’t be here, you wouldn’t even have come to us. Maybe Kalee wasn’t even your first choice,” Stiles turns to his father and opens his mouth to apologize, but the man stops him with a shake of his head and a sad hint of a smile, “I understand that. I even respect that — just as I understand what this,” he pulls at the fabric on Stiles’s back slightly, “must mean to you. This is all you’ve known, your whole life. Just like waiting and hoping for you to come home, and trying to keep Kalee from falling into even more disgrace, has been all of mine. But things change, son, and we must accept them — we can’t always move on, I certainly haven’t, on many things — but we have to accept that things change, and we must adjust. To keep hidden, to be safe, to _survive_ , you have to let go of your uniform, but nothing, anywhere, can stop you from still being the Jedi you have grown to be. These robes don’t make you into who you are, your actions do.”

Stiles smiles at the man, nodding at him.

“Thank you. For everything,” he tells him, voice thick with emotion.

“Anytime,” his father answers before leaving him to change.

Every piece of clothing he takes off feels like a piece of himself that he’s shedding to become someone else. Some _thing_ else.

But his father is right: a uniform doesn’t make a Jedi, just like a weapon doesn’t make a soldier — his actions will define who he is, and he intends to find a way to fight whatever evil has taken hold of the Galaxy.

That is who he is, after all, and no war, no uniform, no tragedy can change that.

He won’t allow it.

**X**

When Jon closes the door behind him, he takes a few measured steps, closes the door to his own room carefully behind him, and then falls to his knees and cries.

His son.

His son is home — his child, taken away so long ago, and now back to his own home planet, to Kalee, just a few days after Derek Hale returns too. Oh, he knows the Galaxy is in disarray, he knows people are suffering and dying, but this is the happiest day he’s had in a very, very long time.

He doesn’t even know how to deal with everything he’s feeling at this moment.

When he heard the alarm for an unauthorized landing that morning, he had never, even in his wildest dreams, imagined he would have found Stiles in that ship. When he saw that strange man, tall and broad shouldered, with the dark cloak and the fight in his stance, hood covering his face, he had sudden memories of the Jedi come long ago to condemn Kalee for a war they didn’t start, and taken away his only hope, the future of his people.

Truth is that Stiles should have been Kalee’s since the beginning. His fate should have been to follow on Jon’s footsteps, become Chief after he retired, marry Lydia and find a way to have their planet proper once again — but no: the Jedi took all of that away from him, from his people, and seeing someone resembling them so closely made a flare of anger rise withing him — and then he had taken off his hood, and everything faded away.

He looked so much like Claudia — so much like his mother.

Now, a man grown, he still had her eyes and her mouth and her fair skin, dotted in moles and freckles that would become more prominent now that he was in sunny Kalee again.

He looked haunted, his son. Maybe he had always been that way — the last time they saw each other, he had been four, after all, but something tells Jon that is not it. Something in his gut tells him that this haunted look, this fear, this angst, this… absolute sadness he seems to radiate isn’t really him, at all.

Lydia had told him the Jedi were being hunted down and killed one by one. He had seen the feeds of the Temple up in flames, and he can only just imagine what this must mean for Stiles — he tries to think of what it would mean for his son to have all of his people burned away from him in one fell swoop. He’s lost all the children from his village once, and yet he feels this is much worse, for it is _his son’s_ loss, not his own.

He mentioned a padawan, a student, and yet here he is, alone and afraid, even if trying to very hard not to show it. He mentioned a fellow Master and _his_ own padawan, but they are nowhere to be found.

Did they die in the first strike of the clones? What could have possibly happened to Stiles that he would run _here_ , of all places — as a Jedi at war, he must have been to all kinds of planets, in so many worlds around the Galaxy, and yet, in just a few days, Kalee gets back his very own General Hale and the child the Jedi took.

For the first time, Jon curses the fact that Kalee has been left alone in the war, for in being apart from the conflict, news travel ever so slowly until they get here.

He thinks of what Lydia had said, and about Stiles’s willingness to just move out of this place — even his room, the place he must have missed while in a strange place, had made no real impact on him — and thinks on how strange Jedi are, how mysterious they still appear to anyone on the outside, and he knows that, right now, he is an outsider, they all are.

His son is alone, scared and hurt, and he has no idea of what he can do to help — blast, he doesn’t even know of he _can_ help, because this is so much bigger than him, so much bigger than anything he’s ever dealt with in a lifetime of being the one responsible for the people in Kaleela.

All he can think of doing is being there for him, and hope that some day, hopefully soon, Stiles will trust him enough to at least allow himself to be consoled by his father, even if he can offer nothing more than that.

**X**

Lydia hurries through the streets of Kaleela, worrying thoughts racing in her mind as she heads to the hospital to talk to General Hale.

Out of all the things she had expected when she heard about an unscheduled arrival in Kaleela that morning, Stiles returning home hadn’t been one of them — it was so absolutely unexpected that she is still having trouble processing what this may mean for her future — for all of their futures.

His coming to Kalee, paired with the news she had been following the past few days about what happened in Coruscant, not to mention the rest of the Galaxy, is troubling on more levels than just the safety of her planet and her people, though — this is so much _bigger_ than anything else she has ever contemplated that, for the first time in her life, she doesn’t know what to think, she can’t formulate a theory, or come up with a plan. She can’t make decisions that will benefit the larger number of people, because in whatever it is that they are stepping in right now, her whole planet’s population wouldn’t even count as a major number.

And they _are_ stepping into it, whether Chief Stilinski realizes it or not — there’s no way they will be left out of judgment in case anyone from the Empire (and what a strange thing it is to think of their whole government system being called that, from one second to the next) finds out they are not only harboring a General they know nothing about, but also a  Jedi on the run.

She won’t, of course, turn any of them in for anything — this is just not who she is, it’s not who her people are, but she is well aware of the danger, and she wants to make sure she at the very least has more of a measure about what they are getting themselves into before either Hale or Stiles figure out that they _will_ help them, no matter what. Offering that kind of certainty with no guarantee is a sure fire way to get them all killed in the process, and this is a thing she would very much like to avoid, if at all possible. As she isn’t stupid, she knows that she won’t get anywhere with Stiles — not only does he look as if he’s seen horrors she can’t even begin to imagine — which isn’t an altogether impossible thing to happen, seeing as he came from the war, alone and on the run to the last place anyone would expect him to — there is also the fact that he is Jedi, and she doesn’t know much about them, apart from the fact that they are fiercely loyal to their own before anything else.

This is not a kaleesh she’s dealing with anymore, this is a Jedi. A stranger with no ties to this place other than they are the ones offering him shelter and should any of them pressure him right now, he’ll most likely take his surviving odds somewhere else, with less bothersome people.

On top of that, Chief Stilinski wouldn’t allow her to pressure information out of him at any rate — his dream of having his son back has just come true, and she may be a bit ruthless, but she isn’t heartless, she wouldn’t try and ruin that for him.

That leaves her with General Hale and whatever information she can gather from him, seeing as he is apparently well enough to leave the hospital and walk on his own to the landing strip to talk to their newcomer — who, by the way, seems to know him.

She needs to know more: so she goes straight to the source.

Melissa is at the reception when she gets there, and the woman smiles at her knowingly.

“I need to speak to General Hale, Melissa.”

“Lydia, we’ve talked about this, he’s still recovering.”

The younger woman merely raises an eyebrow at that.

“If he is well enough to go on his own to greet new people, he’s well enough to talk to me.”

The nurse looks as if she’ll add something, but Derek chooses that moment to show up at the corridor, looking tired, but on the mend.

“It’s okay, Melissa,” he tells his carer, voice softer than Lydia remembers, “I will have to talk to people at some point,” he adds with a small shrug, and Lydia smiles briefly at the woman before following Hale down a corridor and to his room.

She gets in and closes the door behind her, staring as Derek takes a seat on the bed with some difficulty, but she doesn’t offer any help — _he_ , at least, still seems kaleesh enough to not want to show any weakness to anyone, and she thinks she might end up offending him if she does offer aid.

The pieces of his armor are still on the pile by the door, as they had been when she visited him as he slept — she stares at it for a moment, but chooses not to talk about it when he is finally staring at her, waiting for her to talk.

“Why did you come back?”

“I don’t know,” he answers with no hesitation, eyes down on the bed — he seems to know that his red eyes unnerve people, “I was hurt, I was in pain, and I needed a place where I would be safe. Kalee was the only place that came to mind.”

She stares at him in open incredulity for a moment.

“You mean to tell me you have no other agenda here than to get better? Are you going to leave once you’re well enough?”

“If you want me to go, I will,” he tells her with a small shrug he seems to force on himself — as if the natural reactions from a functional sentient being are being drilled into him again after been unused for a long while, “I don’t want trouble, I don’t want to cause _you_ trouble, any of you. You’ve been kind enough to help me, and if I can repay you at all, I will — and if that repayment is leaving, then I will do it.”

She considers him in silence for a long moment — he seems earnest and honest in his answers, but she isn’t sure she can trust him yet. She doesn’t trust easily, that much is true, and she isn’t used to people being good just for the sake of being good — there’s always some ulterior motive, the way she sees it.

“You know Stiles,” it’s a statement, and not a question, but he tilts his head a bit, frowning.

“I know _of_ him…” he trails off for a moment, “My memories are hazy, I’m not sure what is truth, and what is something that showed up in my head for no reason at all, but I do know of him. He’s Jedi. He was in the Battle of Coruscant.”

“Was it there that you met him? Is that why he came here? Because he knew you would be here as well?”

He snorts at that, and it’s the first time Lydia’s seen him act so normally, so casually — it makes her trust him a little bit more.

“I doubt that very much — no one knew I was coming here, not even me. It was chance. What’s more, I very much doubt a Jedi would choose to come here knowing I would be in this city, in this planet. At least not with any intention to help me, or seek me out, that much is for sure.”

“So you _were_ a Separatist,” she states with a smirk.

“I didn’t choose what side to fight on that war,” he says, not confirming or denying it, “I did what I had to do for as long as I had to do it. It’s over now, at any rate, isn’t it?” He looks up, eyes staring into hers for the first time with no shame or embarrassment, but confident and self-assured, and Lydia can see the old General shining through this shell of a man, “I saw some of the news going around — the war is over…” he trails off, frowning again, “Is that why Stiles is here? Is he here to bring me to justice in Coruscant?”

She shakes her head slightly.

“No. He is here to hide,” she takes a deep breath, trying to think on what to tell him and how — there’s no use in trying to hide anything, because he’ll be out of the hospital soon enough, but there’s no reason to betray what little of Stiles’s trust she has by telling him anything he wouldn’t easily find out by watching the HoloNet, “The war is over, but nobody won — the Galaxy has an Emperor, and the Jedi are being held responsible for the war itself. They stand accused of treason, and are being blamed for the death of Chancellor Uther Pendragon and his whole family.” Derek stares at her in shock, and Lydia can share the sentiment — every time she thinks about it, it sounds more and more absurd, “Stiles escaped the first wave of attacks, and he came here to hide. Which brings me to why I needed to talk to you,” he stares at her, clearly waiting for her to continue and failing to see why she would need to talk to him about Stiles’s safety, “Everyone in this planet knows Chief Stilinski’s son was taken by the Jedi all those years ago. That day is the kind of tragedy no one forgets easily, and the Kaleesh certainly haven’t. People know he’s a Jedi, and now people _know_ the Jedi are evil and must be killed. I don’t think anyone from Kaleela would actually try anything, but we do get some foreigners here, and some of them might think it’s a good idea to sell out a Jedi in hiding. Because of that, we decided he can’t really stay with the Chief.”

He stares at her for a moment, eyebrow going up just the tiniest bit.

“You want him to stay with me?”

She nods.

“I want your story to be that the two of you came together — it was a crash landing, he may have parachuted himself out before you actually crashed. This way, you’ll be just General Hale being back home, and bringing in a friend with you,” she pretends to not notice his flinch at his old title, and continues on, “He can be safe, you’ll have someone to watch over you as you recover, and no outsider will get any fancy ideas about selling out the prodigal son who’s returned to us.”

She can see on his face that Derek knows he can’t refuse — it’s not like he has the standing to be making demands right now — but she can also see he _wants_ to.

He looks conflicted, as if this is the one thing he wants to most and also dreads as death itself — possibly more.

“Does he agree to this plan?” he ends up asking, after a few moments in consideration, and Lydia nods in response.

“He did,” she frowns for a moment, thinking about how strange, how foreign, all of Stiles’s emotional responses seem to her, “He didn’t seem too upset about leaving his father’s house,” she snorts delicately, “He didn’t seem too thrilled about being back here either.”

“You shouldn’t hold that against him,” he tells her, and she looks up again, his eyes are sympathetic as they stare at each other, “Jedi are strange creatures, who swear to uphold all that’s good and fair in this world while vowing to never have any part of it. They don’t believe in belonging somewhere, or having anything, or even mourning anyone — not because they don’t _care_ about anything, but because they believe their caring must be encompassing and equal to all things,” He snorts as Lydia contemplates this piece of information, “Sounds like a lot of lies to me, but what do I know about feelings?”

“What do any of us, really?” she asks him back, and the hint of a smile shows up on his lips, “So you agree to it?” she asks, getting up to leave, and sees him nodding.

“If Stiles does, then I do.”

She leaves with a last smile at him.

It feels like the beginning of something huge is just at her fingertips — and she isn’t sure whether she wants to grab it or throw it away completely.

And she has a feeling the choice won’t be completely hers at all.


	3. The ground to build upon

**The ground to build upon**

Derek Hale’s house is certainly more simple than the Chief’s, and Stiles is almost grateful for it when he is left there, really alone for the first time since he arrived in Kalee.

For all that his quarters in Coruscant had been at the Temple, and that in and of itself meant a certain level of charm and glamour, he is used to barracks in war time, and hundreds of people around at all hours of the day — the simple rooms, the living room and kitchen together, a bathroom off to a side, and what he can only assume is a bedroom to another, make up the whole house.

The only doors visible are to the bathroom and the door out — even the bedroom is just curtained off to a side.

He drops his backpack — now with a few shirts and another pair of pants in it, courtesy of Lydia and her trip to a store in town — to the floor and looks around. The place has been clearly empty for many, many years, even if it’s reasonably clean and free of dust.

His father seems to have held Derek Hale to the same regard as he held him, and decided to honor his memory by keeping his house intact — either that, or he just thought the man would return at any moment. After all, Stiles himself isn’t really sure what turned the General who saved him into the monster who killed two of his best friends just a few days ago.

Does it matter, though, he has to consider after a moment of anger — wouldn’t they have died just a few days later, betrayed and ambushed by their own troopers? Or burned to death in their own Temple?

He’s startled out of these thoughts when he hears the door opening and, turning, he sees Hale for the second time in Kalee.

The man looks better than he had the other morning — wearing black pants and a black shirt, boots on his feet, he still carries himself like he has a burden on his shoulders, but just by looking at him, you wouldn’t say he was at death’s door just a few days before.

Maybe severely sick, but not dying.

The door closes behind him, and they stare at each other for a long moment, not really knowing what to do or how to act — or, at the very least, Stiles doesn’t.

Is this an enemy? An ally, a friend, someone who’s here to help him, or just someone running from the war?

“Do you know if Mordred is still alive?” Is what comes out of his mouth, however, even if he hadn’t been planning on asking that — he hadn’t been planning on asking anything at all.

“He mentioned you,” It’s the answer he gets, and Derek walks further into the house. He takes careful, measured steps, as if afraid he’ll set off a bomb with any sudden move, “When we were fighting, he mentioned you.”

“What did he say?” he insists, desperate for any piece of information on his old friend.

Derek shakes his head.

“My memories, they are… hazy, at best. I don’t think I was myself, I don’t think I knew what I was doing for most of it — but he did say you’d be disappointed in me. He did say I might yet find out why I let you live in Coruscant.”

They don’t say anything for a long moment.

“They thought I was a Sith, you know. Because of that. They thought you had let me live, because I was working with General Grievous.”

Derek actually hisses when he hears the name, and flinches back, as if trying to defend himself from the name.

“I let you live,” he says, after a pause to get his voice back, “because I remembered you. You had the same look in your eyes as you did when I found you and Lydia in that Huk ship — that desperate need to survive even though you knew the odds weren’t in your favor.”

“And the others, General?”

“I am no General,” Hale protests, but something breaks in Stiles right then, something ugly and dirty, angry and scared, and he lashes out at the first thing he can identify as an enemy.

“What about the others? Alis-Sen, Eri-Ka, all of the guards, all the Jedi whose weapons you stole, all of them? WHAT OF THEM?” he shouts, coming closer and pushing him back, but Derek merely stands there, letting the shouts wash over him, and it infuriates Stiles even more, “Did they not deserve to live? Who are you to judge that it was their time to die?”

“No one,” he whispers, and Stiles stays in place, trembling in fury, as the man merely stares, head hanging low, “I was no one. I didn’t choose who to kill, I didn’t even know why I was doing what I did — when they put me in that armor, they took something away from me,” he stops talking and looks up. Their eyes meet, and Stiles can see nothing but truth facing him, “It doesn’t excuse what I did, and if I had a thousand lifetimes to live, I wouldn’t be able to undo the evil I helped create — but if I know anything, I know this: I didn’t choose any of it.”

“Then who did?” he asks, knowing he’s being unreasonable to ask this of Hale, but this is someone _from the other side_ , this is a Separatist, a high ranking officer who _must_ have some kind of answer, “I _need_ someone — _anyone_ to blame for this. I know I shouldn’t, I know it’s wrong, I know I can’t let this anger, this hatred, grow inside me, but I need a name. I can’t keep on going, keep on living and breathing and existing when Scott killed himself to allow me to escape, when Liam took his last breath seeing the man who was a brother to him kill him without a second thought. I can’t live while knowing that someone killed my whole order for power, destroyed innocents, younglings, for what? The right to rule?” Hale only stares at him as he yells, growing angrier with every memory that assaults him, “Liam was only seventeen — he didn’t know a single day outside the Temple where he could have lived in peace. He was mine, to protect and teach, and Scott killed him without a second of hesitation — _my_ Scott, who’d been by my side since the Battle that made me into a Knight. They are all dead, gone, forever, and I should allow them to pass, but I _need_ to know why, I just need a name, I need to have a reason, otherwise they’re all gone for nothing, and I can’t bear that thought, I can’t bear it, I can’t—” he breaks off, grief so immense in him that it doesn’t feel like it fits into a single body, and he thinks he may be going insane, or maybe dying, breathing ragged with the wrath he feels in this second, like nothing he’s ever felt before: a rage so deep it seems to be consuming him whole, leaving him raw — but then a hand rests upon his shoulder, tentative at first, but more assured as he doesn’t shake it off, doesn’t flinch away: he needs this. He needs something to ground him right now, or he’ll disappear in anger and hatred, and that would be the ultimate betrayal to all that he’s stoop up for all his life.

He breathes. Staring into the man’s red eyes, he breathes, and he finds his center again, even if not his peace. Hale is not to blame for whatever is happening to the Galaxy, but he may well be part of the answer _why_ any of this is taking place now. Anger will not help him, nor will rage, and so he takes even, controlled breaths, and tries to let this go.

He’s not entirely successful, but it’s the best he can do right now.

**X**

For a fleeting moment, Derek thinks Stiles is doing this to test him.

He knows right now he isn’t trustworthy — he doesn’t even trust himself not to kill, not to hurt, not to disappoint his people, the people who have believed in him even when he wasn’t himself, but this man here, raging at him in such a broken way he doesn’t seem to realize he’s falling apart, he isn’t trying to test him, he isn’t even trying to gather how much he can believe in Derek’s story — he is breaking.

In being defeated by Mordred, Derek gained his whole life back, even if he is still having trouble understanding the memories he carries within him as his own. Stiles, on the other hand, in successfully escaping to his home planet, has lost everything: he is not a Jedi here, he is not a fighter, he’s a broken man with no ground to stand on, no beginning or spark left to ignite whatever it is that will make him move forward: he has nothing.

He _is_ nothing.

Nothing but a broken shell, an empty vessel, with no religion, or belief, or whatever it is that the Jedi believe in to keep them going and fighting when most of the other people in the Galaxy would have given up and, even though his memories still feel like they aren’t his own, this much he knows: the Jedi wouldn’t have done what the transmissions are telling everyone they did.

They wouldn’t.

They had no greed, no thirst for glory, not even the vague notion of dying in honor to become a god in their afterlife like the Kaleesh did — they did whatever it took to keep the peace, and this man right here, lost in anger, is not testing Derek, he just had nothing left to live for.

He comes closer, hand on Stiles’s shoulder and the Jedi doesn’t shake it off, just keep on breathing — Derek feels as if he’s intruding on such an intimate moment, and wonders why: why is he here, when Stiles’s father himself doesn’t seem to have gotten more than a few words out of the man, and suddenly, he does understand: he _knows_ this war.

He’s fought in it, commanded armies in it, killed and, truthfully, died for it more than once.

He’s seen what it did to people, _his_ people, _Stiles_ _’s_ people — and even if they were on opposite sides, he is the one person in all of Kalee who can share this with Stiles simply by knowing what it was like, to fight and live that struggle.

It saddens him greatly that there’s no one better than him here to share Stiles’s grief, it breaks his recently recovered heart to know that right now, just by being here, standing in front of him, Stiles doesn’t care if he lives or dies, because there is nothing left.

 He swallows dryly, _needing_ to do something, reaching out slowly, hands carefully bringing Stiles’s face up to meet his eyes — he tries to find something to say, some motivational speech to ignite the faith in the Jedi again, something inspirational to keep this man going, but Derek Hale has always been a simple man, with simple beliefs, and so what he does is simple as well, because it’s all he knows and all he can do.

“I’ll find you a name.”

It’s a promise he isn’t sure how to even begin to keep, but he’ll do it — he saved this man once, as a child, so very trusting in his arms; and again, a brave Master, willing to die for his Chancellor, the man he was defending, never faltering even in the face of his friends falling by his side: he saved him, he spared him, and he will do it again.

He doesn’t know if there is some great scheme, some bigger force who commands the universe and makes things happen just so, and if there is, he wouldn’t think it has any kind of special plans for him, because he is not a man for big schemes: he is a soldier.

Maybe the only part he has in all of this is to save this man here, again and again, until he can do his part in it, because Stiles is the kind of man on whose shoulders the fate of the universe can rest, and if his part is to bring him comfort, or keep him from giving up and falling into despair, then so be it.

It’s good enough for him.

Stiles takes a deep breath and shakes his head — his ragged breathing calms, but he still trembles in anger as if he cannot stop himself from it.

“You cannot promise me that,” he whispers, voice shaking, clearly trying to get a hold of himself and failing miserably.

“I can,” he insists, eyes never leaving Stiles’s, willing him to see he is telling the truth, “Not all people I served are dead, and my memories are difficult to sort through, but they are _here_. I will remember, I will know who they are, and I will help you understand this. I swear I will.”

The Jedi stares at him a moment longer, face pale and eyes still ablaze in fury, gaze so intent, so searching, Derek feels as if he is seeing into his very soul — an old tale comes to him, that Jedi can read people’s minds, and he bares everything he has, doesn’t even hesitate, because he has nothing to hide here.

Stiles is not the only one with nothing left, their only difference is that Derek never had anything to lose to begin with.

“Thank you,” the man whispers so very quietly, and Derek nods, rising to his feet and pulling Stiles up with him.

“You should rest some more — you won’t find any answers exhausted and battle weary as you still are.”

He gives him a small push towards the bedroom, but the man doesn’t go, frowning instead.

“What about you?”

Derek shrugs slightly, a gesture he isn’t used to doing — every move in that armor was measured and useful. Shrugs, and nods, and doubts had no place in that machine.

“I’ll find us some food. I’ll guard the door. You should sleep.”

Stiles still stares at him for a moment longer before nodding slightly, and going to the bedroom, taking his backpack with him.

Once the curtain is closed, Derek can see his shadow moving about the bedroom, lying down on the bed, something clutched to his chest — probably a weapon of some sort.

Truly alone for the first time since getting to Kalee, Derek takes a moment to get his bearings — for all the free time he had in the hospital in the past few days, he was never alone, never on his own, never able to let his guard down.

Now he can.

He can try and sort through his memories and understand, or at least try to understand, what is happening to him and what little he can remember.

It feels so strange to be back to this house, stranger still that he remembers this place better than he does what he was doing just the past week. He remembers eating, and sleeping, and pacing this very room better than he remembers why he was fighting Master Mordred.

There were more people he fought, and he can’t remember why. The sense of urgency, the desperate need to obey the orders he received: that much he remembers, but all those memories feel off, separate from him.

He eyes the pile of armor off to a corner and wonders if he, or anyone in Kalee for that matter, could help him figure out if there’s any kind of controlling mechanism in it, or if it was in him, and truly burned away when Mordred hit him with that last strike.

He needs to think so many things through, he needs to understand so much — he needs to find a path.

It dawns on him at that moment that apart from his promise to Stiles, he has no aim, no fight, no war to go to for the first time in his whole life.

There had always been something before, someone he had to go against, ever since he can remember — the Huks, the people he was in charge of intimidating for the Banking Clan, the Republic Armies, always something, always someone who was his enemy and now… Now there’s no one.

He is free.

He is _in peace_ — and he realizes he has no idea what to do with that feeling.

He is a soldier, he’s _always_ been a soldier: he became a General _by being_ a good soldier, and now he doesn’t have any wars to fight. Derek intends to keep his promise to Stiles, of course, but that doesn’t mean there will be a fight to be had — what can the two of them against an Empire? Against the people who are hunting down Stiles’s kind, and would probably not have a second thought about killing him too, not only for his past crimes, but for helping and harboring a wanted criminal under his roof.

What choice do they have here, what life can they lead?

Work in Kalee? Derek knows the Chief’s dream had been for Stiles to grow up to take his place in Kaleela, but he has Lydia for that now, and as far as he can tell, she’s been doing a great job of it — they don’t have an army anymore, for Derek to command. Stiles is no Chief, that much is for certain.

What will they do?

Become mercenaries, bounty hunters, smugglers?

The two of them are set apart form the rest of Kalee, he sees that clear as day, they were a part of the war for the Galaxy, and now… Now the war is done and both their sides lost.

To whom?

He remembers hatred. He remembers the man who trained him to fight, the elegance of his movements, the harshness of his words, the disdain he possessed for him and his droids — but that wasn’t the true Master, was he?

There was someone else… A Lord.

A shadowy figure, always shrouded in hatred and shadows and Darkness.

Sidious.

The name comes to him like a lightening strike, fear seeping into his very soul as his eyes widen — Lord Sidious.

The Sith Lord.

It seems like he does have a name to give Stiles after all.

**X**

Sleep, as it turns out, is something important that he shouldn’t have gone without for as long as he had.

From Coruscant, to Felucia, to Takodana, to Kalee — it all felt like on very long, exhausting day to Stiles, when in truth, just on the trips between Felucia and Takodana, and from there to his home planet, Stiles lost days. He had taken one or two naps in the flights, but he hadn’t slept properly since he had left Coruscant, and even the hours he had drifted off in his father’s house hadn’t been enough for him to be fully rested.

It seems that having a rage fit in front of an apparent former enemy tired you out enough that sleep does come easily to him when he finally lies down — he clutches his and Liam’s lightsabers to his chest again, but doesn’t wake up because he’s startled out of it, but simply because he wakes up: his body seems to have rested enough and is ready to awake.

Sitting on the bed, he stares out the window to see the sun just rising over the pyramid-like buildings of Kaleela, and is surprised to find he slept for almost an entire day — not the he didn’t know he needed it, but because he didn’t think he would have trusted anywhere long enough to actually rest, but rest he did.

Getting up, he opens the curtain carefully, finding a pillow and a sheet on the couch in the living room, but Derek Hale is nowhere to be seen — he goes to the bathroom and freshens up, puts on a clean shirt and heads off again, still barefoot. He heads back to the room he slept in, puts on his boots, and secures the two lightsabers on his belt, beneath his shirt. When he’s done, he finds Derek is in the kitchen, looking as if he had just woken up himself.

It’s painfully awkward.

Driven by the rush of adrenaline as he had been the past few days, everything seemed so simple for him up till now: find a ship, find information, find a place to hide, find somewhere he can stay — now, with no pressing matters at all in his hands, he stands awkwardly by the kitchen doorway as Derek Hale, _General Grievous_ himself, cooks breakfast.

Noticing he’s being watched, Hale turns slightly and nods at him before going back to his cooking, without saying a word.

He should say something, he knows, especially after everything he had said the day before, but he doesn’t know what would be appropriate here, what he _should_ say.

The decision is taken out of his hands when Hale turns around with two plates of food in his hands, which he sets on the small table at the corner, and nods at Stiles to come and join him. The Jedi opens his mouth to thank him, but Hale beats him to it.

“I have a name for you,” he says, and Stiles’s eyes widen — partly because he isn’t really expecting Hale to keep his promise to him, but also because the softness of the man’s voice doesn’t cease to startle him in some way, “Sidious. Lord Sidious. He’s a—”

“Sith Lord,” Stiles himself completes, and Hale tilts his head, not exactly looking surprised, but curious all the same, “We were looking for him the day you—” he interrupts himself and changes his words so as not to offend the man who’s offering food, shelter and a reason to live, “the day of the Battle of Coruscant. Peter was the apprentice, then,” he says, watching as Hale takes a bite of his food as he nods, and he does the same — it’s surprisingly tasty for something cooked by a General of war. Either that, or he is so hungry after having slept for a whole day that anything would taste good to him.

“We received our orders from him, even Peter. If anyone would benefit from the war, if anyone would like to see both sides losing this miserably, it could only have been him.”

“Do you know who he really is?”

Hale shakes his head at that, frowning.

“His voice was always distorted, and he was always in the shadows. Even if he wasn’t, I don’t know many politicians in Coruscant to know who he could have been.”

“He may not have been a politician,” Stiles suggest, but Derek shakes his head.

“A soldier or a fighter wouldn’t have gone seeking power through this distorted way, through ten years of war and misery. This was a political maneuver, not a battle.”

Stiles eats some more and bites his lip, considering things carefully.

“Whoever he is, this new Emperor is his ally — it is known that the Sith are always two, a Master and an Apprentice. If he keeps to the shadows, then the Emperor may be his apprentice.” Terror grips at his heart just by thinking that — a Sith at the heart of the Galaxy.

The thought itself is so terrifying even his breathing falters for a moment.

“Or just his mouthpiece, a puppet to do his bidding — it seems to work for him,” Derek tells him, bitterness sipping into his voice, and Stiles eyes him carefully.

“Your eyes…” he trails off, and Hale turns back to him, looking inquisitive at his words, “It looked like they flashed just now.” He keeps staring as Hale frowns.

“Melissa said there’s something strange with them, but it doesn’t impair my vision, so she let me go, because she doesn’t understand what it is.”

“They used to be hazel, didn’t they? Flashed blue when you got angry,” Stiles says thoughtfully, memories of watching the General as a kid running through his mind — he doesn’t even know how he remembers that at all.

Hale nods at that.

“It’s a Kaleesh trait,” he starts, pausing slightly and swallowing hard, “I don’t think I fully count as a Kaleesh anymore at any rate.”

The man gets up at that, bringing his own plate to the small sink and rinsing it before setting it to dry, and Stiles continues sitting, again not knowing how to act.

He was never good at small talk. Add to that the fact that the person he’s trying to converse with is a former enemy, and he’s at a loss on how to proceed.

“They reconstructed you, didn’t they? Geonosian technology, by the looks of it,” he says, nodding slightly at the pile of durasteel and broken armor by the door.

“There was an accident. Melissa couldn’t fix me, and then… This Separatist came, promised Jon he would heal me. I don’t know what he said to convince Chief Stilinski, but he did, and I just never came back. When I was… _aware_ again, I wasn’t myself anymore, I was—” he stops talking then, eyes flashing bright red again.

“General Grievous,” Stiles completes, but Hale doesn’t say anything else, leaning against the counter, arms crossed in front of his chest, looking, for the first time, threatening, anger seeping out of him in heaps. Strangely enough, Stiles understands this anger is not directed at his father, for allowing him to be taken, or at Melissa for not being able to help him, not even at Stiles himself for bringing it up, but at the ones who did that to him: rightful anger, he thinks.

“The clones made in Kamino,” he starts again, voice quiet, eyes glued to Hale’s form, ready to defend himself in case the anger shifts towards him, but willing to talk if it will calm the man down, maybe help him heal, because this is clearly not his own fault at all, “They have some kind of controlling program in them. It took out all of their own free will — men I had been fighting with for over a decade turned on me and the Jedi with me without a second thought,” he stops for a second, taking a deep breath, seeing Hale turning to stare at him too, “One command, it was all it took. One command on a commlink — Scott had been the ARC to every mission I commanded ever since I was nineteen. When I started training Liam, Scott taught him almost as much as I did, saw him like a brother, a friend, and yet one order, just one, and Scott took him down like it meant nothing.”

Hale stares at him for a long moment in silence, his whole expression not looking so tight anymore, but still careful, as if treading on unknown territory, which Stiles thinks it’s fair: this is unknown territory for the both of them.

“Did you have to kill him?” he asks Stiles, voice soft and careful.

The Jedi shakes his head slowly, looking down, and forcing himself to be calm — anger won’t lead anywhere good, hatred won’t bring Liam or Scott back, and Hale isn’t asking this to hurt him, but to understand.

“He killed himself. Single shot to the heart, after telling me to run,” he pauses, the smallest hint of a smile on his lips as he looks down, “So many people, even the Jedi, looked on the clones as if they were less than people, but Scott broke through it, fought it down long enough to give me a fighting chance, because he was my friend.” He looks up quickly, seeing how that could have been misunderstood by Hale as a criticism of him and his behavior, “It didn’t stop him from killing the three other Jedi with us, two of which we had just gone through great risk to rescue. It didn’t stop any of the other troopers to come after me once the order was given, and that was _one order_ over a commlink. I can’t imagine what it must take to break through armor designed to control you as well as keep you alive like you did — and you did it, successfully, twice. You did save me, and you did hear what Mordred told you. It takes great spirit to do that, General.”

Hale shakes his head again.

“I’m not a General,” he tells Stiles, but he looks less angry, and his eyes seem less red all of a sudden.

They stare at each other quietly for a moment, before a noise by the door makes them both startle — standing by the door and looking at them with an eyebrow raised is Lydia Martin.

“This doesn’t look awkward at all,” she says, and Stiles smiles slightly at her, who answers it in kind, “I hate to break up what I’m sure is a very interesting staring contest, but Chief Stilinski would like to talk to the both of you in the Government Building.”

Stiles gets up and takes his plate to the sink, rinsing it as he had seen Derek do, and setting it to dry too, before sighing.

“Lead the way,” he says, watching as she gives them both a strange look before heading out again.

They make their way with no rush to actually get to the meeting, and Stiles finds that as strange as anything else they have been doing so far — there’s always been rush in his life, always _something_ to do, to achieve, to learn. Lydia takes them through the busiest path, waving at people, and nodding at others, pointing out the general store, and the canteen, and the main streets, as if the both of them hadn’t been _from here_ to begin with.

She seems to go through great pains to show it all to Stiles, and suddenly he understands — this is a public declaration, a show for the people of Kaleela that he is here as Derek Hale’s guest, someone who, supposedly, has never been to this planet, let alone this village, before.

It’s part of his cover story, and he thanks Lydia mentally for it.

If no one knows who he really is, then he will be safe enough for now.

At least until he finds out _what to do_.

She glances at him while pointing something out again, and he nods at her, and makes irrelevant questions, and she finally gives him the tiniest smile in approval, seemingly glad that he has finally caught on.

They continue on their way, Lydia on his left, and Hale slightly behind him, to Stiles’s right, face serious and closed off — he looks in pain every time someone greets him with a bright smile or a call for General Hale.

What had he said to Stiles earlier? He is no General.

And he understands the pain and the misery coming off of him in waves — he lost that part of his life, much like Stiles lost whatever it was that made him a Master Jedi.

He may continue to follow the principles, he may live his whole life in contemplation of the Force, but is it the same if there’s no more order to live for, no more Temple to call a home?

How can Hale be a General with no army to join him in battle, no war to fight?

How can Stiles still be a Jedi when there’s more Jedi Order to guide him through the path of the Force?

They arrive at the City Hall, and soon they are all seated in the Council chamber — Jon at the head of the table, with Lydia to his right. Stiles sits on his left, with Derek beside him.

“How are you feeling, son?” Jon asks him with a kind smile, and Stiles tries to smile back at him.

“Better, sir, thank you.”

“What about you, Derek?” The man looks trapped by the question, but he shrugs and lowers his head before answering, amusing Stiles.

“I’m fine,” he states simply.

Jon nods at that, satisfied with their answers, before sighing, and looking serious again.

“We need a plan for the two of you if we are to convince the people of Kaleela that neither of you has anything to do with the war,” he starts, and Stiles can feel Derek sitting up straight beside him, “The timing of your arrival, even with the cover up that the two of you got here together, is just too suspicious. Already there are people speculating who it is that came with Derek to the planet, why the two of you are here, where Derek’s been all these years with no news — people aren’t stupid. Even if they aren’t going to think kidnapped by Separatists and Jedi on the run, they might talk if we don’t have a consistent plan.”

The two of them keep quiet, waiting for the Chief to go on, because they know he is right — their arrival had been suspicious, because they _were_ involved in the war, and they _had been_ on the run from it.

“Our plan is to reinstate our Army,” Lydia tells them simply. Stiles’s eyes widen, and Derek flinches by his side, “We are going to tell people that Hale was headed here anyway, but his ship was damaged in re-entrance. We are going to say we called him back to start up our military again — ever since our war against the Huks we are without defense, but now, with the end of the galactic war, smaller trouble is bound to find its way here, and we need to have a strong army again. Derek can resume his post as General, and Stiles can help train the soldiers.”

There’s a moment when Stiles expects Derek to say no, to deny this, to tell them he won’t do it, but the man keeps quiet, even though his eyes are redder than ever before.

He, however, cannot keep quiet.

He did not run from a war to get into another.

“I am not a soldier,” he tells them quietly, voice controlled, but the same anger that had taken a hold of him the day before is staring up again within him — it’s like the Force itself is filled with it, and he can’t escape it.

“But you did fight in the war,” Lydia states, tilting her head to the side a bit, “You were a General, all the Jedi were. You had troopers under your command, the Army of the Republic at your disposal — you know war.”

He is already shaking his head even before she stops talking.

“That was not the point — we didn’t fight for battles, we fought for peace. The battles, the fight — none of that was the point of it, _ending_ it was the point of it.”

She’s frowning when he says that, looking like she doesn’t understand what he is saying.

“You were a Jedi, isn’t it the whole point of your order to defend the Galaxy, to fight for what is right?”

“The point of my order is to _keep the peace_ ,” he argues, and she smirks at him, a little bitter and a little angry.

“Do you even know what peace is? Do any of the Jedi?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he tells her, voice trembling in anger, and she leans forward on the table, red hair falling over her shoulders and eyes sparkling dangerously — she may be beautiful and look delicate, but it’s clear she never backs down from a fight.

“I don’t. I don’t understand the Jedi, pretty much like none of the common folk do. I don’t know what your life was like, and I don’t understand what you say when you tell me the point of war is to keep the peace, because, to me, to the _common people_ , it’s as if you’re telling me you’re setting a fire to a forest to keep it from getting burned down. The Jedi started this war, and they ended it by murdering the Chancellor.”

“That’s not what happened!” he shouts, finally losing his patience, and standing up, his chair screeching against the floor and falling with a crash.

Lydia smirks victoriously at him from the other side of the table, leaning back again.

“I know,” she tells him calmly, all aggression gone from her voice, “You told us and, against my better judgment, I believe you, only stars know why. But the people out there — they don’t know it. And if you tell them, they won’t believe you. And if you get this angry because someone is badmouthing the Jedi, then you’ll get yourself killed the first time you walk out there on your own, because they are all doing it. You were the enemy long before this new Emperor declared you so.”

He sighs, lost and tired all over again. He takes his chair from where it fell down and rights it again, sitting and staring at her in a desperate plea.

“I don’t understand this,” he says, looking at his father too, seeing the man staring at him with tears in his eyes again, and Stiles himself feels like crying too — every time he thinks he has his bearings again, something comes along and takes it all away, “Help me understand this,” he pleads, and Lydia sighs, looking as though she is thinking of a way to start her explanation.

“Your Order is a mystery, Stiles,” his father begins simply, as if explaining something very simple to a child, “Years ago, before the war, you were keepers of the peace, and yet we only ever heard of you in times of war — you yourself was taken from here to end a conflict. A political maneuver ending a war that wasn’t our fault and still we were blamed for it. We understand the whys, but, you have to look at this as someone from the outside would: the Jedi kept the peace, but their peace was dictated by a Senate who didn’t always have everyone’s best interest in mind. The majority of the voices heard in that Senate were from the bigger planets, the ones with lucrative trade routes and money lining their pockets, like the Huks used to have. It seemed, even all those years ago, contradictory that the ones sworn to defend the peace only ever showed their presence when conflict was upon us.”

“Because we aren’t necessary when peace is already there,” he argues — it seems such a simple concept for him. Why can’t they understand that?

His father is nodding along with that, but he goes on.

“Rationally, everyone knows that, but emotionally is very hard not to hold a grudge against the people who have the powers to make life better for everyone, and yet, choose not to interfere unless ordered by a Senate that was corrupt and ineffective, unless you had enough credits to fill their pockets,” he explains.

“And all of that was _before_ the war started,” Lydia picks up. Stiles turns to look at her, “The transmissions were irregular at best, and that is not just because we are in Kalee, and no one cares how much information we get — everyone in the Galaxy gets little information, and when we see something, we see always the same faces, as if they are heroes and the rest of the Jedi are just soldiers. The news of battles won and lost soon became background noise — who cares if a planet was taken, or recovered, or lost, when ten days later, everything had changed again? The war tired the people out, Stiles, it made us almost desensitized to death and loss because it’s _everywhere_. We had news of one planet being taken back by the Republic only to have it taken away by the Separatists one day later. It seemed that no matter how hard the clones fought, how well the Jedi led, everyone was always losing on both sides.”

“And through it all, the Jedi are being discredited,” his father says, “Looking at it now, I can see how manipulated it was all being, but, when it started, I don’t think anyone noticed. There was always something off, something bad to be said about the Jedi fighting. Slowly, but surely, your Order lost the status of a mysterious people who kept the peace, even if in contradictory ways, to be replaced by this image of ruthless and efficient warriors. Competent Generals, sending in their armies to die by the thousands, not caring about how much the people from where they were lost, as long as the battles were won.”

“There was this transmission,” Lydia tells him carefully, “I was twenty at the time, had just started training with your father, of a Battle in Haruun Kal.”

Stiles swallows dryly at that, going carefully still as Lydia looks away, as if thinking of the memory before telling him anything. He notices Derek eying him, but he dares not move, lest she stops talking.

“The people from their main city, they were hiding in the buildings during the whole battle. The droids patrolling the streets killing whoever they found, not caring if they were friend or foe — the clones attacking the gates, one by one, storming in by the hundreds, and this mad Jedi killing people with her lightsaber for no reason at all, laughing all the while,” she stops to take a deep breath, and Stiles stays still, reemerging every detail of it, “The City Hall was the headquarters of the Separatists, and some Jedi got in and the whole building came crashing down. All I could see, afterwards, when the transmission was ending, was this desperate man with his dead wife on his lap, crying, and a Jedi standing over him, the same Jedi who took you away, making pronouncements about peace. What kind of peace was that? What kind of keeper of the peace causes that much pain?”

“My kind,” he tells her quietly, and she looks up sharply, “I did that. Haruun Kal was my trial, my first battle as a General, I became a Knight when we took back that planet, and we saved that Master, for all the good it did her — she’s still in a coma…” he stops and shakes his head, “ _Was_ still in a coma at the Temple till the day it was burned down. The Jedi killing mindlessly was my Master’s former padawan, and we were sent to deal with her, and help those people. I was the one who got into the Government Building. We talked to Argent before anything bad could happen, and it was Jen-Fer who blew that building up — we got as many people out as we could, and Master Deaton made that pronouncement asking for peace, which we got, because those people united as best as they could. Jen-Fer wasn’t evil, she wasn’t a demon, she was Jedi before Dark took her over, and to this day I’m proud that we could bring her back into the Light. We didn’t kill for sport, we knew what we were doing, and we tried our best to save everyone we could.”

“And yet, that is not what any of us saw,” Jon says, voice tired and eyes sad, “That is what Lydia is trying to make you see — the Jedi are being undermined by the transmissions and by everyone else for years, Stiles, a decade. There are very few people out there, if any at all, that don’t blame you for this war, who won’t believe the Emperor when he tells them _you_ , your Order, killed Uther Pendragon for power, exterminated his family to eliminate the chance for revenge. The Jedi became the embodiment of everything people fear, and now that the war is over, and their safety doesn’t depend on them anymore, people are free to hate them, and hate them they will.”

“We were never the enemy,” he pleads, desperation gripping at his heart, because he needs these people, at the very least _these people_ , his father, his childhood friend, the man who saved them, to believe this. At least _these people_ , seeing as he can’t get any more than this.

“The enemy has no face, Stiles,” he turns to Derek, seeing the man looking sad but determined as he speaks, “You know this as much as I do. The enemy hides in shadows, and even the Jedi never knew him. Even now, that he won, we don’t know him. They hate the Jedi because you have a form, you are a symbol, an idea, and it’s easy to hate something tangible, when the alternative is seeing that neither the Jedi, nor the Republic, or the Separatists won. They won’t see this until it’s too late.”

“What enemy?” Lydia asks, staring at them intently, before Stiles can answer to what Derek said.

He doesn’t look at her right then, he keeps looking at Derek — this is his secret to share, and the decision has to be his.

“The Sith,” Derek tells her, seeing her frowning.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she tells them, sounding disbelieving. Stiles sighs, gathering his thoughts.

“You have to think of the Force as something that moves us all, surrounds us all, protects us all, for it is the very thing that brings life and balance to the universe,” he starts, waving his hand slowly, in a very small move, and bringing the small potted plant that was on the other side of the table to them — he sees his father staring at it in fascination, and sees Lydia looking around the plant, as if trying to catch strings attached to it, “Everything is part of the Force, and we are its servants. It is our duty, as Jedi, to follow the path of the light — of fairness, and peace, and justice, and compassion — to keep the balance in the Force, to keep the Darkness from taking over. The Jedi are no mystical wizards, this is not magic or cheap tricks to deceive the eyes: we just have another layer of contact with the Force that most people don’t. As if we can see one more color, or hear one more note than the others.” He sets the plant down again, and the other three people in the room turn to look at him, “The higher the count of midi-chlorians one has in their blood, the more contact with the Force they have — that is what we test for when we feel the presence of the Force in a child, before taking them to the Temple. Many people are Force sensitive, even if they can’t use the Force like the Jedi do, and to have this much contact with the Force, to have it help you, and do what you ask, you must train hard, and never stray from your path. We meditate, we train, we learn, we study — that is what we do. I started late — most children taken to the Temple get there when they are still babies, but I studied hard, and I was lucky enough that there were Masters willing to take me in as their padawan when I passed my tests.”

“Mordred,” his father says, frowning, and Hale freezes by Stiles’s side, but he keeps calm and still as his father talks, “You seemed to like him.”

“And we became friends, down the road,” he tells the man with a small tilt of his head, “Morgana too. But they were not my masters because of circumstances beyond our control — Master Deaton was the best Master I could have asked for, and he taught me everything I needed to continue pursuing knowledge on my own, for that is what we do: we learn. We work with the Force, and we try to interpret its designs, and serve it to the best of our abilities. As padawans, and Knights, and Masters, and when we gain a padawan of our own to teach: we learn to serve its will. That is what Jedi do — we are servants, and there is only one true master: the Force,” he tells them calmly, and takes a deep breath, “The Sith are on the other side of that specter. Whereas a Jedi will try to learn the will of the Force and serve it, a Sith will try to bend the Force to do their own bidding, and they derive their power from the lower, negative emotions that all Jedi try to escape: lust, anger, hatred, passion — all which takes your reason away and leaves only instinct in its stead. It is an easier power, but it is corrupt: you don’t work for it, and it will corrupt you with an insatiable thirst for power that can never be quenched.”

“So they are… Jedi gone evil? Is that it?” Lydia asks, but Stiles shakes his head.

“It’s more than that — a Jedi may be gray, even Dark, and still be a Jedi. Many of the great Masters were considered Gray. Nimueh, Peter — they weren’t light. I don’t even think _I_ classify as Light as much as Mordred does, for instance, but the nature of it, the nature of the power and how you use it, that is what changes you. One may, of course, start on his path as a gray Jedi and descend into Sith, but they are not the same thing.”

Staring at them, he sees they don’t really see the difference and he wishes he had more ways, more time, to explain it to them, but this is something it took him years to understand — that conversation with Master Deaton before the Battle of Geonosis was probably the first time he fully understood it all, and he had bee at the Temple for over a decade then.

“Count Peter was the one who took me from here,” Hale says unexpectedly, and Stiles turns to look at him — he looks deeply uncomfortable, staring at the table instead of his companions, and he is clearly forcing himself to speak, “At first, he worked for the Separatists, and he left Kalee alone on my request.”

Stiles nods at that.

“He was — he had always been gray. He trained Master Nimueh too, and when Merlin got to the Temple, and Mordred started training him, I thought Master Peter would train me, it seemed like a good fit. And then he left the Order — mostly for the very same concerns we all had, and the things you said yourselves just now. He was a good man. He had his priorities, even if he wasn’t always on the light with the ways he used the Force to achieve what he wanted. He was still Jedi — and then the Sith got to him, and he didn’t care who he hurt, or how many people he killed in the process of achieving what he wanted. We thought he was Lord Sidious, but when he died, the Dark continued to take over, so…” He trails off, turning to Derek, who is looking right back him, “He has a new apprentice. Whoever Sidious is, he has someone new, someone he took in after Peter died. Another Jedi who turned.” He pauses, looks down and takes a deep breath, because this is the first time since Felucia that he can see a reason, a purpose to his life, “If we can find out who is still alive, we can find his apprentice. We can go after them.”

He has no idea why he is including Hale in his plans, seeing as the man was his enemy just days ago — maybe he instinctively knows he will want some sort of revenge for having his life taken away from him for years, maybe he just trusts him because he has no one else.

“They are used to secrecy, but if you have a way to contact other Jedi—” Derek starts planning with him when he is interrupted by Lydia’s disbelieving voice.

“And do what? Take down two people and hope the whole Empire will fall down with them?”

“I have to stop them! I have to find out who the apprentice is and—”

“Son,” his father calls, his tone firm even if gentle, “I don’t think you understand the kind of danger you are in,” he takes out a small tablet and turns on some transmission he’s obviously keeping, to show it to him.

The HoloNet transmission is bad — Stiles isn’t sure if the capturing of the images is bad, or if transmissions in Kalee are just low quality, but it shows war prisoners in Murkhana. There were missions, in Murkhana, he knows. Scores of troopers were there, along with Jedi generals.

The line of prisoners is long, and they all look in pain — many of them are already dead.

“We received this transmission last night. They are rounding up the Jedi they find and killing them on the spot — there haven’t been captures, only deaths,” his dad tells him.

The camera cuts to a more ample angle, and Stiles can see, just off to a corner, a head beside what is clearly the handle of a broken lightsaber.

The HoloNet is controlled by the Empire now, he can deduce this much. They wouldn’t be putting this out there, almost casually, if they didn’t want to — this is a threat and a warning that they are coming for them, for the ones who escaped.

He feels faint watching it all, understanding, _seeing_ for the first time the reason why he felt that loss, that pain in Felucia, the Force screeching with thousands of deaths.

And then, at the back of the transmission, just as it is ending, he sees it: a dark form from head to toe, cloak blowing in the wind, heavy helmet on his head, and a red lightsaber disappearing just around the corner.

The image itself sends shivers down Stiles’s spine, darkness in its truest form taking shape in that moment.

“We found him,” he states, freezing the image with a shaking hand, “That is the apprentice.”

It’s easier than it should have been, he knows this. And yet, even if that is what he had been yelling about doing not even a minute ago, suddenly Stiles wishes he hadn’t found him at all.


	4. Rebuild

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably a good time to say that I'm not really a fan of the Jedi and their doctrine.

**Rebuild**

Seeing a shadowy figure on a transmission does nothing to help Stiles, and that is a bigger problem than he is willing to admit.

He has nothing.

No focus, no mission, no path to follow, and it’s taking a toll on him now that the stress and adrenaline of his escape have officially left his system.

His father and Lydia seem to think his mission now is to rebuild his life, to find a new purpose, to become something different now that his Order is gone, but how can he?

He never had any desire to be anything but what he is — he is a Jedi, a Master. He fought long and hard to become what he is now, battled his demons, and tried to learn from his mistakes. Worked hard and continuously to be the very best he could be, and now they want him to what? Give it all up, become someone else?

He doesn’t even know how to _be_ anything but what he is.

It’s disconcerting.

Watching people going about their days with no purpose, living day to day as if this is what they are meant for — what is the point of it all? How can someone _live_ like this?

The Order didn’t just provide him with a mission, it gave him purpose, order, understating in a world where all of those things are necessary to keep things working, but now it’s all gone, and he has no idea how to rebuild himself, because he doesn’t know if he _wants_ to be rebuilt.

Stiles doesn’t want to stop being a Jedi — and he is afraid that this desire is more out of fear than free will.

After the meeting with Lydia, Hale and his father, he had excused himself to walk around on his own for a while — the streets of Kaleela look so familiar, but he doesn’t know if that’s because of his own past life here, or because they all just look the same, as if stuck in time. People come and go about their business, most of them wearing just the basic clothing required for work, running back and forth with their lives, going about their business as if the whole Galaxy isn’t in disarray, as if democracy itself isn’t going up in flames.

He stops, leaning against a fence, close to the one canteen the village has, and stares. His arms crossed in front of his chest, the two lightsaber handles digging into his back in a painfully comforting reminder that he hasn’t yet lost all he is.

Not yet.

They don’t care.

Either that, or they don’t know. Maybe even more worrying: they do know, but they don’t see the fall of the Republic as a bad thing. How can they just follow with their ordinary lives like that, when everything that’s kept them safe so far is falling apart?

“What has the poor canteen ever done to you?”

He turns when he hears Lydia’s voice, and nods slightly at her when she joins him, leaning against the fence by his side — she had stayed behind to deal with village matters with his father, but he has a feeling no one is very willing to leave him, or Hale, alone for very long.

“So?” she prods when he says nothing, “You are looking at the building as if you are going to set it on fire with your eyes alone — Jedi _can_ _’t_ do that, can they?” she asks, eyes wide in mock-fear, and he scoffs before shaking his head slightly.

“The Galaxy is falling apart, the Republic has been destroyed, and they…” he trails off, exasperated, but knowing he has no right to feel like this, but feeling it all the same.

“Stiles, the Galaxy has been falling apart for us for a decade.” He makes to interrupt her, but she puts a hand on his arm, turning around slightly to face him as they talk, “I know you felt as if you had a goal, I know you were fighting to bring the war to an end, and I think that gave you purpose, and it was the good fight you were fighting, but it also gave you a very skewed perception of life in the Galaxy. For you, it has all fallen apart in the space of a week — for them, for _us_ , this struggle has been going on for so long, we don’t even notice it anymore, it’s white noise, background sound. The reality of how _immense_ this change in power has been won’t really get to the people of the Galaxy for a long time yet, because something _huge_ was always going on in Coruscant, or a hundred other worlds out there. It was impossible to keep count of the battles and casualties or changes in power. All we could do was be grateful that it wasn’t us — this is just one more instance of gratitude: it’s not us. We’re safe, the war is _over_ , that’s what everyone is focusing on.”

She pauses abruptly at that and stares at him, a dark look in her eyes. Stiles bears it unflinchingly — he has been gazed down by Master Kilgharrah, Lydia’s stare is bland when compared to his.

“I have to confess, though,” she says after a few moments, “It… disconcerts me that you seem to have trouble understanding their relief.”

“I understand their relief,” he feels the need to defend himself, “I just don’t see how they aren’t more concerned about… _everything_. You just have to look to see all the issues arising, and yet they choose to just feel relief.”

“They choose to see the good at the end of a terrible war,” she corrects him.

“How good can it be if the ones who have fought for them for a decade are being slaughtered?”

“Have they, though? Have you?” He doesn’t answer to that because he can feel anger and betrayal swimming inside him again, and he is honestly afraid of what will happen if he lets it loose, “You say the Jedi fought for what’s good and right, and I say you don’t even know what was good and right anymore. You can’t see what’s right in front of you — the small lives, the little people, the common folk — _they_ are what you should be fighting for. Not for power, not to maintain the working order, but for _them_. And if the Jedi are so far away from the rest of us, if they are so far apart from the people they said they defended that they can’t understand the value of peace, then what peace were they fighting for anyway? What kind of Guardian were any of you, if all you seek is a reason for another battle?”

“That’s not what I meant!”

“I don’t understand what you meant, then,” she says, shrugging elegantly, and turning to stare at the canteen again, her face cold and hard, “I can’t seem to understand you, Jedi Master Stiles, and you don’t seem to understand us. That is exactly my point.” She pushes away from the fence and turns to face him again, “What good is a whole Order of guardians sworn to defend the people’s peace if they don’t even know what people _are_ anymore?”

Lydia doesn’t give him a chance to answer to that, walking away slowly, as Stiles stares at the canteen until the sun is so bright that he can’t bare the heat on his skin anymore.

What good _is_ he now?

What good are any of them?

**X**

Stiles takes the long way to Hale’s house after that, and still he beats the man to it, apparently — the whole place is empty, and he finds himself restless, uneasy, as if his skin can’t fit all of his emotions inside itself.

He needs to find his center: he needs to meditate, something he’s been avoiding since the attack in Felucia, since he felt such a great Disturbance in the Force that it made him afraid to find out what it meant. Now, he cannot see any other way around it: he must find out what it is that is making him this out of sorts with his inner self, with the Force, with the world, as if he has been torn apart and put back together with missing pieces, or, at the very least, with wrong ones instead.

Sitting in the middle of the living room, his weapons at his knees as he had been taught to balance them decades ago, he closes his eyes and takes a cleansing breath, calming himself down, letting go of the physical world, and finding his inner self, his inner peace, searching for the Force — before the War, it was common practice for the Jedi to meditate for hours every day, searching for the Force inside them, for the more you searched, the easier it was to find it, the easier it became to interpret its will, and the more you understood of it, but with the battles going on, and the chaos all around them, they were lucky when they could take one hour at the end of a very long, tiring day to commune with their guiding center.

It took him longer than it normally would to find his center, and that disturbed him greatly — Deaton always said he had an easier time being attuned to the Force than most — not that he had a particularly high amount of mid-chlorians in his blood, at least not in a quantity that deserved attention, like Merlin, but an affinity for finding it, and using it to help him achieve his goals. The fact that it takes him so long to find his center, let alone to attune his own thoughts to search for the Force, disturbs him, and that disturbance defeats the purpose of his search, and he has to start all over again. He breathes in, breathes out, eyes still closed, the world outside completely shut out unless there’s an attack, of which he isn’t really expecting any, at least not for now. Again, he searches deep within his soul for his center, his peace, and then he finds it and almost wishes he hadn’t — the second Stiles finds the Force, he has to let it go: it is in agony, on fire, burning, and suffering, dying a hundred thousand fiery deaths. It’s nothing but pain, and chaos, and darkness right now, and he screams with it, his eyes flying open, and he flinches back from the hands grabbing at his shoulders when he comes to his senses again, reaching madly for his weapons.

“Stiles! Son, it’s me! Look at me! Stiles!”

He gasps for air, eyes focusing on his father’s worried features, and swallows dryly upon seeing not only him, but Lydia and Derek right behind her — the three of them look concerned, but his father appears to be on the verge of tears. Both his and Liam’s lightsabers are by his feet and he scrambles to gather them in his hands, almost like a reflex, holding them tightly against him. Stiles realizes he is huddled against the far left corner of the house, knees raised against his chest, defensive as he can’t remember being ever since he was four and the Yam’rii killed all his friends.

His eyes meet Lydia’s, and she seems to be thinking the exact same thing — what kind of terror could he have possibly seen, that this is what he has been reduced to?

Stiles looks down, trembling breaths still hard, but more stable now that he is aware of where he is, and he tries to talk, but it takes his a few attempts for his voice to work properly.

“I’m fine.”

“You were catatonic for thirteen hours, and then you went into a fit, I don’t think that counts as fine.” Her voice is sharp and almost cutting, and if it weren’t for the tinge of worry in there too, Stiles would think she is actually angry, but this is probably just the way she’s learned how to express concern: they are in Kalee after all, and showing weakness is never a good thing.

“I was trying to meditate. It’s what we do when we find ourselves lost,” he tells them quietly — his voice doesn’t sound his own, not even his words: it’s Mordred he hears, his calm, his inner peace, his smiling blue eyes, his promises that he’d do his best by the Force.

Stiles closes his eyes tightly and gets up slowly, using the wall as support because he is sure he wouldn’t be able to on his own. His father’s hand helps him, and their eyes meet when he opens them again. He tries to convey his gratitude, but the man still only looks worried beyond reason.

“Did you find your way, then?” Lydia presses, voice bordering on derision, their previous conversation comes to his mind before he answers.

It hurts him — it hurts him more than anything he could ever say, he thinks, more than actually thinking about Liam’s body alone, or about Scott’s betrayal and subsequent sacrifice: it hurts him physically, like a blow to his heart, like a tear to his skin with a sharp, hot blade.

“There is no more way, Lydia,” he tells them, looking at each of them in turn, and then out the window, seeing the sun setting slowly again, in a foreign world, in this foreign universe in which he has no certainties anymore — absolutely none, “There is no more Force, there is only chaos.”

“Stiles—” Surprisingly, it is Derek who starts talking, but Stiles just shakes his head.

“I don’t think there’s anyone else left. And if there are, I don’t think they can reach me, or I, them. Chaos has taken over — the Dark Side has won. There’s only Darkness in the Force.”

“I’m sure you can—” his father starts too, but once more, Stiles only shakes his head, his belief only solidifying the more he thinks about it — there’s nothing left.

“I thought I was biding my time, I thought I was waiting for something. I thought my orders would come — I thought _my Order_ would come.” He pauses, staring at both weapons in his hands, fists tight against their handles, their weight a reminder of everything he would never, ever have again, “There are _no_ orders, there _is_ no Order, there is no _order_. Not anymore.”

He stops.

Not just his words, not just his speech, or his search for a target, or whatever he had been doing since getting out of Felucia — he just _stops_ , because there is nothing else for him to do.

What now?

_What now?_

_What can he do now?_

When he raises his eyes again, a minute later, or maybe five, he sees three pairs of eyes staring at him, in a different kind of worry — this is almost fear. He isn’t sure if it’s _for_ him or _of_ him. Maybe this is the first time they’ve realized he wasn’t really here for them, that this wasn’t his final plan, his final destination — up until now, this was but a stop on his path to join his Order again, to get back together with his fellow Jedi and fight the Dark Side, but now he _has nothing left_ , because there is no Light left to follow in the Force.

He is truly lost.

**X**

Lydia is no stranger to seeing people break down — she lives in Kalee, after all, and this land isn’t friendly to anyone. She has never left this forsaken planet, not for lack of offers, but because it had always felt like this was the the place she is meant to be, and so she stays: she has a place in the world here, a purpose, a destiny, a future.

What she sees in General Hale’s house when they finally see Master Jedi Stiles wake up from his trance, however, is not merely breaking down — that is witnessing someone falling to pieces so small he will never again be put back together in the same way, something will forever be missing, forever broken, and it is scaring her to death.

Ever since she had seen him back to that landing strip, Stiles’s return had felt like the beginning of an adventure — her childhood friend, the only other child who had survived that Huk freighter with her, back from Jedi training, just as the war had ended, to help her bring glory to Kalee. She hadn’t truly realized, even as she saw with her own eyes how reluctant he seemed to be to take part in anything they brought to him, even as he felt distant and cold, even as they could see he and Hale had some connection neither of them wished to explain — not even the afternoon before when they had argued and she had glimpsed how little he grasped of her people, of _people_ in general, of how foreign and alien he is to any and every thing that isn’t his Order — not even then had she seen that his plan had never been them, or the people of the Galaxy, but _his_ people.

And now he realizes, as she, and the Chief, and maybe even Derek Hale, had already done: that his Order is gone forever.

It is, she knows, she can see that, clear as day, something deeper that. Something more meaningful than a handful of buildings and the deaths of his companions: something has changed _within_ him, something to do with this Force that he seems to count on for every step of his way that seems to have shifted, and Jedi Stiles is broken, for _Jedi_ Stiles is no more: whatever is left, this man in clothes too big for him, grasping two weapons she hasn’t yet seen lit, but she guesses aren’t as deadly as they had once been, doesn’t seem as real as the Master who had arrived in Kalee in the dead of night seeking refuge.

This man is in pieces, and it is tearing her apart, and scaring her as she had never thought possible before.

“What happened, son?” the Chief’s voice is calm, and centered and reassuring, everything hers can’t be, and she’s so very thankful for his existence now, as in so many other moments in her life, as she is sure Stiles will be too, if he survives this — when he raises his eyes to meet his father’s, she isn’t sure he will: they’re empty, almost void. The fire burning in them, fueled by despair, certainly, but burning all the same, is gone now, dead.

“All my life, I’ve had guidance,” he starts, voice quiet, empty, eyes far away even as he stares at the three of them. He almost doesn’t move — if breathing weren’t an involuntary action, Lydia is almost sure he would’ve stopped, “I left here in the arms of Masters who showed me the path of Light. Who showed me how to hear the Force, how to listen to its will, and how to serve it. All my life, that is all I have ever done, that is all I was taught to do, that is all I was _made for_. I’ve trained every day ever since I was four. I battled, I meditated, I spliced, I helped in the Library, I patrolled, I healed. Against my very nature as a Kaleesh, I obeyed. I acknowledge that I questioned the Order more than once, I listened to Master Peter when he told me there was corruption in our midst, and I agreed with Master Deaton when he doubted Merlin could save us all, and I tried my best to do my part to fight against the evil in Coruscant, even going as far as voicing a different opinion than the Council time and again, but I never, _ever_ , doubted the path I chose to follow, the Light to guide me. It’s all I have ever known. I have no attachments; I have never known other love; I have no possessions; I have no passions; I gave up any other sense of self but the one my Order gave me; any other person than the one my mission needed me to be — I have only ever striven to live in peace, and order, and compassion, and all life has thrown at me is chaos, and war, and now I’ve been left with nothing. I have nothing.”

Lydia almost misses the tear falling down because she has her own falling down her cheeks to account for, but Stiles’s surprised gasp makes her stare harder, and he seems as surprised as she is when he notices he is crying, running the back of a hand on his cheek and staring at it incomprehensibly for a second before shaking his head again, breathing hard once more.

“I was taught that I should allow everyone, even those I love, to pass into the Force when they die. That mourning them, and missing them, and crying for them is not right, for attachment leads to suffering, which leads to fear, which leads to hate, and that is the path to the Dark Side of the Force, but… There is no more Light Force for them to pass into. There is nothing — everything I was taught, everything I _am_ is gone,” he pauses, an almost laugh on his lips, despair so clear in his eyes now filled with tears that Lydia can’t decide if she wants to hug him close or run away from such intensity, “I’m nothing,” he finishes in a whisper.

For a second, it’s like time is frozen, and nothing moves — and then Chief Stilinski is moving with purpose, almost as if marching to war, and taking the man who is now taller than him into his arms, encircling him with all his strength, clearly with no intention of letting him go any time soon.

“You are not nothing,” the man whispers, “You are Stiles Stilinski, a son of Kalee, _my son_ , and you will find out what that truly means with our help, for this was your home once, and it will be again, if only you give it a chance.”

Stiles doesn’t answer — he doesn’t hug his father back, doesn’t say anything in return: Lydia isn’t even sure if he is listening to what the Chief is saying, but his eyes are closed, and even though his arms are fallen by his sides, a weapon at the end of each hand, his head is on his father’s shoulder, and he appears to be crying silently, mourning, she thinks, possibly for the very first time in his life, is any of what he’s said is to be believed.

She turns to stare at Hale and sees he has already left and she hadn’t noticed. Her eyes meet the Chief’s and with a quiet nod, she leaves too, leaving father and son to their moment inside the house, walking slowly towards her own little place, where she lives with Jakh-Sin. On her way there, she sees Derek making his way slowly towards the hospital and hurries to catch up to him.

“Are you going to Melissa’s?” she asks, and he shrugs — that mechanic quality hasn’t quite yet disappeared, but slowly his responses are becoming more natural to him.

“I’m going to see if she needs some help in the night shift and come back home in the morning. I think Stiles needs space more than he needs to see me right now.”

If she weren’t _beyond_ tired as she is now, she would be exasperated by all the secrecy and mystery around these two, but she hasn’t slept in over a day, she hasn’t truly rested in nearly a week, and she has been emotionally spent ever since the man’s ship crash landed on her planet almost ten days ago, so she decides not to press matters — at least not right then.

Nodding quickly, she goes back home.

It’s not much — nothing in all of Kaleela is _much —_ but it is hers, conquered by her own efforts and Jakh-Sin’s hard work too.

Before her father left, even before the Huk attack that took away all of her friends, her father had been one of the best mercenaries Kalee had to offer, and she and her mother had lived like princesses — or, at least, that’s what her mother tells her. Then the Huk Wars started, and he left, never to return. They never knew if he didn’t come back because he was killed in a bad transaction, as it is known to happen from time to time, or if he didn’t wish to return to fight in a regular Army, or if he just didn’t care to come back to a family who still loved him, but suddenly, it was just her and her mother, and they made do: her mother taught all the kids in the village in their little school, because she was smart; and little Lydia was the smartest and the prettiest of them all.

And then, one day, she really _was_ the smartest and prettiest of them all, because there were no more kids to be compared _to_. The one child she was closest to had always been Stiles, both because of their age, and because of their smarts, and he had been taken from her even though he had lived, not because of something _she_ did, but because he was _more_ special than she was.

Lydia had a hard time coming to terms with that for a very long time — she grew up never much liking the Jedi, and the war certainly didn’t help matters any, but Stiles had always managed to be kept apart from them in her heart, as much as she tried to not let sentiment be a part of her decision making process. The Jedi were no good beings who took her best friend away and left her behind — but Stiles was the one Jedi keeping the war away from Kalee. Now she can see, clear as day, that the Jedi were all one single thing, almost one single being, and Stiles certainly didn’t think of Kalee enough to even remember it existed, let alone try and defend it.

Most likely, whatever part General Hale had played in the war, it had kept both sides of it away from her home, and for that, she was more inclined to trust his judgment than Stiles’s right now — if not for that than for the fact that the Stiles she had just left behind wouldn’t be able to pass judgment on anything for some time still.

How cruel _were_ these people to take a child like this, and leave nothing behind but this will to serve a single purpose? To leave nothing but this one path to follow, to leave them blind to all the choices life had to offer? To show them the whole of the Galaxy and then teach them to deny everything it had to give them, every pleasure, every delight?

What wonders hadn’t Stiles seen in his years as a Jedi, as a padawan, as a Knight, as a Master, traveling all over, and never _enjoying_ it, never loving anything, anyone? Never coveting anything, never working hard to achieve something, never truly _wishing_ something to call his own, never feeling desire to _have_ someone, even if for just one night, one hour, one kiss, one look even?

What Light is this light that takes away everything that is good, and beautiful, and kind in life, and leaves behind nothing but duty and order, and expects it all to work?

No wonder Darkness has won — if these were the odds, it is a surprise that it has taken it so long, truly.

**X**

Lydia gives them a week — a week, and that is the end of her rope.

A week in which she hears the news of their progress through Jon who tells her Stiles is still in what seems to be a state of shock, and Derek apparently doesn’t know what to do with himself because, from what the Chief seems to have gathered from increasingly strange conversations with the man, he has forgotten how to be a human — or a kaleesh — in the past ten years. She has the courtesy to tell the man she is going to get them both out of the house, and Jon seems reluctant to let her, but both Stiles and Hale are adults, and both of them need to be seen by the population, or rumors are going to start flying around — as they already have. Most of them are harmless so far, and most of them could work in their favor: apparently, someone seemed to think that General Hale had been kidnapped by the Jedi and kept in a cell and that is why Kalee had never joined the Separatists, and that is why they were never attacked by the Republic too. The “mysterious man” who has arrived with him (and no one seems bothered to check to see if they _had_ arrived together) was a Red Guard who helped him escape the Massacre promoted by the Jedi, and then they stole a ship, and came back home.

It’s ridiculous and infantile, but so far it’s been making the rounds, and it’s been working in their favor. Every time Jakh-Sin listens to it, he bursts out laughing, Lydia smiles, and Jon gives them a tight lipped salute, and as far as most of the population goes, that’s as good as a ‘think whatever you want, son’.

Be that as it may, however, they need to be seen in public, and soon.

So she gives them a week, and she is going to get them out.

When she gets to General Hale’s house, she finds Stiles sitting by a window, staring out to the street, as Hale reads something on a tablet that is quite possibly some outdated information, since they get the news so much time later than the Inner Rim worlds, and that by now is most likely irrelevant. They look fed, at least, and clean, which she guesses is an effect that the daily visits by the Chief has caused, but this isn’t progress, and they _need_ progress.

“You are both coming with me to the canteen.”

Neither of them answer — Derek out of shock, if his expression is to be understood, and Stiles because he truly doesn’t seem to understand the concept of it.

“I don’t think—” Derek starts, but she holds up a hand, stopping his argument before it can start.

“I don’t really care what either of you have to say about anything. The war, the Force, the past, an armor, an Order, I don’t care. What I do care is that I and the Chief are risking our necks to have this whole village believe that the both of you are here to help us rebuild an Army. Do you know who makes up Armies? _People_. Do you know where you _meet_ people? _Outside_.”

Her speech does have an effect on them, just not the one she was expecting — now Hake looks defensive, and Stiles looks terrified.

“Look — I don’t know anything about any of you, and I had to let go of many notions that I now see were unfair of me to have of you because I do not know you. You are no longer my best friend or the man who saved me when I was a child. You are different people, but you are still _people_. Or, at the very least, you will have to learn _how_ to be, because whatever it is that you were before is over, it’s gone, and it’s been a week. You have to move on.”

Hale stares for a long moment — not at her, however, at Stiles. He seems to wait for a clue, for any indication from him before making his own mind, and whatever it is that he was looking, he seems to find it, because he gets up with a sigh, square his shoulders as if for battle, and walks over to her, stopping by her side and looking at Stiles until he too rises from his seat and follows them out.

Lydia remembers from tales everyone around them told when she was little that Hale had always been quiet — always a kind word for a fellow soldier or a family member of a fallen friend, but usually, quiet and reserved. However, she does remember Stiles being a chatterbox, his mouth never really ceasing its chattering unless it was full of food. Now, though, the walk to the bar is quiet as a procession, but she doesn’t break it — everything at its own time, at least they are out of the house.

When the three of them enter, the loud music seems to stop for the tiniest of second, every eye in the place turning to them, and then it all goes back to its usual crazy rhythm at the rise of one of Lydia’s eyebrows. They join Jakh-Sin at a table in a far corner, and both Stiles and Derek seem to go straight for the chair with the back to the wall where they’ll be facing the door, until they reach a compromise of sitting side by side.

A droid comes by to get their orders, and Jakh-Sin winks at it with a flirty smile, and the droid scurries away happily, sure to be back with their orders before anyone else’s, because her fiance has that effect on most beings, be them organic or not. Little by little, the people around them stop paying attention to them, and go back to their business — Lydia sips her drink, Jakh-Sin leaves to talk to some friends, Derek entertains himself by people watching, and Stiles… is.

He doesn’t drink, doesn’t seem to be really _watching_ the people like Derek, doesn’t seem to be really doing anything at all in there, much like he was back in the house. His location changed, his attitude didn’t.

“Aren’t you used to drinking?” she ends up asking, just to have something to say, because she’s running out of ways to reach him, and she realizes now she hasn’t yet heard his voice since his breakdown a week ago.

“I—” he stops, a strange smile crossing his features again, and she sees Derek quickly turning to look at him again, before she focuses back on Stiles, “I’m not really sure.”

The answer seems mechanical, programmed, and yet something in it sends a chill down Lydia’s spine. Her eyes meet Hale’s and she sees in the red in there that he is worried too, that he doesn’t know what is going on either, and that he, probably for understanding this whole Jedi thing worlds better than she does, has much more reason to be scared than she does.

She doesn’t get a chance to actually ask anything because the HoloNet on the closest monitor starts showing them the burial of the Camelot’s Royal Family, and Stiles’s strangely cold, scary mask changes in a second.

His eyes, once again, fill with tears as the image shows Chancellor Uther Pendragon, his daughter, a Master Jedi, like Stiles, Morgana Pendragon, her belly swollen with children who will never see the light of day — but it’s when his son, King Arthur Pendragon, strong and regal, red cape around him, blond hair like a shining halo around his head, appears on the procession, that Stiles gets up and storms out.

Many in the canteen voice their discontentment with the deaths and approval of his behavior, mistaking it for revolt against the Jedi and their killing of such a fair King, but Lydia knows better — or at least, she _partially_ knows better, and so she hurries to follow. On her way out, she nods at Jakh-Sin to stay behind and watch Hale, who keeps staring at the screen, and he nods back, trusting her to handle the situation if she thinks she can — and that is why she loves him with all her heart.

She finds him sitting on the edge of the top of the government building, and she sees his shoulders shaking before she can hear his ragged breaths between his sobs. Approaching carefully, she sits beside him on the dirt covering the cut-off top of the pyramid and sighs, their shoulders not quite touching.

“I remember when I was four, and you were three, and Heather came here with us, and Stars only know how we managed to climb all the way up, and we were all grounded for a week,” she tells him quietly, and he only shakes his head, still crying.

She waits.

She has been waiting for something, _anything_ , her whole life, she can wait a bit more.

“I promised him,” he tells her, voice rough and broken, muffled by the tears themselves, “We all swore to defend the Senate, and the Chancellor _was_ the Senate, and the Republic, that is what we _were_ , but King Arthur,” He turns to look at her then, and she sees _him_ , and she tears fill her eyes too, because now, for the first time since he arrived, maybe for the first time since he was four and she was five, she sees _Stiles_ , burning bright amber and brave in those eyes covered in tears, “I promised _him_ , Lydia, right before the battle, I promised _him._ He asked me to protect his father, and I told him I would defend him with my very life.”

“You did, though, didn’t you? He died days later, Stiles,” she says, trying to console him, but he shakes his head harder this time, wiping his tears angrily.

“That moment, when he looked at me, when he asked me to defend his father, that was the first time in over a _decade_ that I thought of my father. I don’t _deserve_ to be here, I don’t _deserve_ your help, or for any of you to be here with me, helping me to be safe. You were right that day, my order didn’t know what people are, what people need, how to save them. I deserve to burn with the rest of them.”

He gets up and jumps off the edge. Lydia gasps, her heart beating fast, but he merely falls gracefully to the ground and starts walking towards what she hopes is Derek’s house.

When she turns, Derek is there, hidden by the shadows, watching.

“He knew it would scare you, that is why he did that.”

“You and him both, apparently,” she tells him, dryly, but Derek merely sighs, running a hand over his red eyes, clearly exhausted.

“I don’t think any of us understand what we are dealing with here, but I do think I know enough to realize that if we lose Stiles to whatever state of mind he is in right now, we lose everything.”

Lydia sighs sadly and starts walking towards the edge of the pyramid — it’s an easy climb if you’re an adult.

“It would be terrible, and I don’t think Jon would ever fully recover, but—”

“Lydia, I’m not talking about Jon not recovering,” he says with a final tone in his voice, jumping off the few final feet and waiting for her to climb down before continuing, “Remember what you told us about the Jedi gone mad? Destroying a whole planet for fun? I think that is what the Dark Side does. I think losing his Order is bringing Stiles very close to it, and I think he isn’t thinking clearly right now. I’ve worked… very closely to these people for very long, and I may not… remember most of it, but I do know that once you’re on that path, I don’t think there is a way back.”

She stares at him for a second trying to process this information.

“What are you saying? That we should kill him before he goes mad?”

Hale actually scoffs, his red eyes shining in the dark night.

“I think it’s amusing that the common folk keep forgetting that every Jedi was a general in that war, and that every single one of them counted themselves worth at least a battalion of any normal man. All of Kalee couldn’t take Stiles down _now_. I don’t want to think of the kind of damage he could do if he _wished_ to harm anyone. On top of that, consider the fact that the Empire would be here in a second if they got wind of a crazed Jedi murdering the population of a former-Republic friendly world, and we’d be destroyed in a second. We need to get him back, or we are _all_ doomed.”

Lydia is ashamed to admit it, she is embarrassed to even think it, even though it’s an involuntary tiny thought that crosses her mind, but for the smallest fraction of seconds, she wishes Stiles hadn’t come home.

**X**

Losing a decade of your life to war is a tragedy, and Derek knows that. He acknowledges that his life is sad, and that he deserves some help, probable even needs it to some extent, and he thinks he should prioritize that at some point _if_ , and only _if_ , the other inhabitant of his home weren’t a broken Jedi.

When he came back home that night, Stiles was laid upon his bed, staring at the ceiling, eyes blinking occasionally, barely moving.

The next morning, he got up, he ate what was put in front of him, he cleaned himself, he changed. He walked when the Chief came around, he was _aware,_ to some extent, that there were people around him, but he wasn’t truly _present_.

That alone would be, certainly, cause for concern — a sadness so deep that one refuses to live is reason enough for anyone to worry, and when Jon had brought in Melissa, she had given him a clean bill of health physically, and said he probably needed some more time to recover from his whole ordeal, mentally. She ordered him to rest and let go of stressful memories, and he nodded at her, and that was the end of it, and Jon seemed to believed that is what Stiles had been doing, but Derek doesn’t quite buy it because his memories may be flawed, but he has them, and he has this feeling: this crawling on his skin, this buzzing in the air, this attack that doesn’t really come but is always hovering — he remembers this.

This Dark Side talk that sounds like a story to scare small children into behaving, this is a memory he can bring forth with no problem: a memory enveloped in fine clothing and elegant poise, in weapon training and disdain for his armor, even though he valued its efficiency. He remembers the feel of it from Count Peter striding into his ship, and he can feel it now, when Stiles seems to be having a particular dark thought — maybe the Force is, indeed, corrupt, and if that is the case, then they have to bring Stiles away from it, or they will lose him to it, and they will lose Kalee to the Empire.

He has no idea why this should be his mission, or why should he even care — Kalee is his home, but Stiles is not his responsibility. He doesn’t know why he cares so much about the young man, except for the words Mordred told him as they fought: how convinced Stiles had been that he could be saved, how disappointed he would be that Derek could not fight whatever it was that was controlling him to overcome it and be himself again, why should it matter what a child he saved over two decades ago thought of him now? But it did, and he didn’t want to let Stiles down.

In a way, those words had, in fact, helped him. He’d rather have died on Utapau knowing who he was than escaped that planet in the armor still protecting him, because he’d rather be free than a slave to the Dark Side, and now it was his turn to try and help Stiles — he didn’t need saving, not really, just some help to find a way that wasn’t a path chosen for him by his Order.

To follow their teachings, right now, would lead him into chaos, and what Stiles needs right now is to make order _out of_ chaos. Life itself is chaotic, nothing is ever set in stone — as much as you try to make it so, some things, no matter how small, always change, and there is nothing you can do but adapt. Jedi, as it turns out, are not very good at adapting, hence their disappearing in one fell swoop by a well placed coup made by a well placed strategist.

Stiles needs to learn how to be a person again, and Derek wants to help him, he really does — but truth is, this is a case of the blind leading the blind, for Derek is not very good at being a person either. He hasn’t been one in over ten years, and before that, he wasn’t so much a _person_ , as he was a General, and before that, he was a _soldier_.

Truth is, he thinks, heading back home as the sun is starting to rise, greeting some people who are heading to their work, and seem to think nothing of seeing their former General going home at dawn, both of them are in some desperate need of help, and all they can do is hope they won’t just end up damaging each other even more than they already are.

**X**

“I told Lydia it was too soon, but I guess when the alternative is apathy, I do prefer anger.”

Stiles startles at the voice of his father, and locates the man sitting at the chair by the window in the bedroom that he and Hale take turns in using, none of them too fond of sleeping for it to be an issue nowadays.

“Anger leads to fear which—”

His father scoffs, and Stiles cuts his old saying off, half offended and half because he doesn’t even want to continue, hatred still coursing through his veins.

“Anger leads to fear, yes. And sadness. Hatred. Denial. Desolation, depression, solitude. It can motivate you, it can defeat you — it’s not the feeling that makes you who you are, it’s what you do with it.”

He doesn’t answer — again, because he still isn’t sure _he can_. They don’t understand, none of them do. He is not one of them, he will never be, because being in contact with the Force in the way a Jedi or a Sith is gives them an unfair advantage or a hindrance, it is always present, and it can’t be ignored. If he can’t heed to the teachings he has always followed to deal with the burden he carries, how is he supposed to carry on knowing he cannot count on the Force to guide him because all he can find within him is chaos?

“You’re in pain because your whole life has been taken away from you. Everything you had, everything you could count on, your home, your friends, your mentors, every single person who was on your side, everyone you trusted is gone, and you don’t know if you can trust yourself, because when you search deep inside yourself, all you see is fear, and anger, and desire for revenge.”

Chief Stilinski’s voice is calm and steady, not in the fatherly way it had been up until this conversation, but hard — a commander’s voice. A tone Stiles is used to, something he understands and knows how to respond to, because he’s seen this, he’s heard this, _he_ _’s used this_ , countless times before. He takes a step forward almost involuntarily, and Jon gestures easily to the bed near the chair, where Stiles takes a seat — his body is tight with anticipation, he feels as if at any moment now he is going to implode, but he does sit to listen. When a commander talks, you take their words in, even if they are not _your_ commander.

“No one else on this planet can begin to fathom what being a Jedi means. What having whatever it is you have in your blood that connects you to the Force in such a way that it makes it help you, and so, no one else in here can even start to understand what it’s like for you to lose that right now,” he pauses, leaning forward, blue eyes flashing the faintest of traces in the kaleesh way, and for the first time Stiles can remember, he sees the smallest hint of displeasure in his father’s stare directed at him, “But do not presume to think that a single person on this land does not understand fully well, does not comprehend perfectly, loss, and suffering, and anger, and wish for revenge just as well, if not much better, than you do.”

The man lets that sink in for a moment, and stares at Stiles, waiting to see if he wants to say anything, but he doesn’t — not yet.

“Derek Hale registered to the Kaleesh Army because his whole family was taken by the Huk in their first wave of attacks — he was the only survivor. Lydia’s father vanished soon after that war started, and her mother had to fight tooth and nail to keep her from being kidnapped half a dozen times, because a child that beautiful, in a village full of mercenaries, was too easy a prey to go unnoticed. The owner of the main store in town, Malia, was sold as a slave by her mother before her father even knew she existed, and made money in fighting rings in dozens of planets before buying her own freedom and settling down here. Melissa lost her husband who left with no notice, and then lost her son to disease because our planet didn’t have the medication she needed to treat him, even though she _knew_ what it was, and still she helps our people. I lost your mother in the very house I still live in, and I lost you on the same day she died, and now I get to look at the man who is supposed to be my son and see that he is not, that he cares not for us, or for our people, and still I hope. And these are just a few cases, these are just a few people, and all of them, every single one of them, feel anger, and despair, and hatred — but they love. And they cherish the good things, and they feel passion for the beautiful moments in their lives, and fight to keep them, because _that_ is what makes life worth living. To live in peace, to achieve full compassion, to have nothing to call your own, so you won’t feel the need to feel conflicted over it: maybe that is a great way to be a Jedi Master, but it certainly is no way to be a person. And this is what it comes to right now, Stiles: what do you wish to be? The ghost of a fallen order or a new man? Because if you wish to be a ghost, then I will mourn you, son, for I have mourned you for twenty-three years already, and I will do so for the rest of my life, and I will be here by your side until you define to your death,” he gets up and stands in front of Stiles, gaze intent and serious, “But if you choose to live, then do so with no regrets of leaving your Jedi learnings behind. Do not let them stop you from going forward, because they can’t help you anymore. Do not do this halfway, son.”

He steps away, and turns his back on Stiles going to the door. He’s almost all the way out when Stiles takes a shuddering breath, and closes his eyes, thinking back on the very moment that destroyed everything he worked so hard to be.

“My padawan’s name was Liam, and he was sixteen years old,” he sees his father stop by the door, but the older man doesn’t turn around, just stays there, unmoving, waiting, and so he goes on — it’s probably easier like this, with no eyes judging him, “My best friend’s name was Scott, he was a clone of the Army. He was in my first battle as a General, and he had been the ARC in my every mission ever since. He was there when I became a Knight, and he was there when Uther Pendragon himself commended me for services rendered to the Republic and I became a Master. He was there the day Master Kilgharrah nominated me as Liam’s Master and tutor, and he helped me teach him every step of the way, and all it took was one order, just one,” His voice breaks then, and his father turns, still standing by the door, but his eyes hold pity and misery, and Stiles knows he must be a sorry sight but for once he doesn’t care, he is past caring — he can’t pretend he is a Jedi now, he has heard and felt it enough times to know that he is no longer a Jedi, he just doesn’t know if he can learn how to be a person, “Scott shot Liam right through the heart. My Liam, my brother, my padawan, the closest thing to a son I could ever have.” Tears now running freely down his face, he inhales deeply and shakes his head, trembling hands twisting in his lap as his shoulders shake with the sobs he can’t hold back, “He killed the Jedi we had just rescued, the padawan he was training. He looked at me right in the eye and told me to run, and then he killed himself so I could escape. Everywhere I go, death follows me, and I can’t seem to get away from it.”

“Stiles,” Jon says, and takes a step back into the room towards his son, who looks up at him, despair written all over his face, something dark shining in the depths of his eyes.

“I can’t escape this darkness,” he whispers.

Jon approaches the bed slowly, sitting by Stiles side, and putting one hand around Stiles’s shoulder, pulling him closer carefully, until the man gives into the embrace, and Jon hugs him tightly against him.

“Maybe you can’t escape it, but you don’t have to bear it alone. Let us help you, son. Let us carry this burden with you, and it will be easier to stand it.”

His only answer are tears, yet his father doesn’t really seem to be expecting anything else — but even in the middle of all the despair and tears, he does know one thing: he has made a choice, and he chooses to live.


	5. Self

**Self**

It goes without saying that Stiles is not very good at this whole mourning thing — he doesn’t know if he is doing it properly, if his reactions are right or wrong, and stresses himself out thinking about what he _should_ be feeling more than actually letting his feeling course through him.

When he’s told there is no proper way to do it, he seems at a loss, and Lydia has to, once again, restrain herself from losing what little patience she does have after days of dealing with this, to remind herself once again that this is a person trained since age four to obey order and command, to find harmony and sense in chaos.

For being as exasperated as she is with him, it’s easy to overlook Hale who lurks in the sidelines, watching, waiting, seeming to be anticipating something terrible to befall them because of the Darkness he says he can feel in Stiles that she can’t sense — maybe he is paranoid, or maybe he can sense something that she cannot — either way, he watches and observes, and Lydia has come to accept that this is who he is and doesn’t think there is anything wrong with it. Some people _are_ like that: they watch first and act later.

That is what she thinks until the day she decides to try and talk Stiles through his feelings.

He is  behaving like a caged animal, most of the time, not knowing quite well how to let himself out of the cycle he’s built: he tries to feel for the friends and family that he’s lost, and at the same time keeps stopping himself from doing so, because it is what he’s been trained to do. He paces, twists his hands, and walks around. Runs his hands through his hair, walks aimlessly around town, and can’t find any activity to do that takes up more than ten minutes of his attention. When asked what he would do to calm himself down, he tells her he would meditate, but that is immediately shot down, because the Darkness has taken over his happy place or whatever it is he calls his meditating state, so he has to find something else to do.

“What do you feel, Stiles? When you think about your friend, your padawan, the clone on your mission, the Jedi who were killed in your Temple, and with you on Felucia? What do you feel?” she asks him, stopping his pacing one late afternoon, after a long day of working with Jon to find resources to fit an Army again, and not having much success, and then coming by to find Stiles, once again, pacing, and Derek, once again, watching him.

“Anger,” he answers — this time with no hesitation, which, truth be told, is progress. He would have stopped himself from even thinking the word just a few days ago, so that _is_ , indeed, progress, “I feel anger, and betrayal, but I don’t know what to _do_ with it!” he exclaims, hands flying about in an uncoordinated motion that would have looked strange and funny in anyone else, but Lydia finds it almost endearing. It’s such a _common_ thing to do, such a _person_ gesture to do that it calms her down, makes her think of a Stiles that could have grown up with her, been by her side as a friend, and not this alien creature who doesn’t understand mourning because he’s never allowed himself to feel any of those things.

“Then embrace it, let it out. Fight something. Punch a wall, go out to the canteen and pick a fight — you wouldn’t be the first,” she snorts, but Stiles scoffs at the idea almost in unison with Derek.

“Even if I pick a fight with the _whole_ canteen, I’d be the one left standing,” he tells her with such arrogance, Lydia lifts an eyebrow at him, not certain that he is kidding, but she doesn’t get to reply because Derek speaks first.

“We could train.”

Stiles freezes.

He goes completely still, and then he turns, little by little, staring at Derek as if he is utterly insane, the mock arrogance and the storm of feelings from before gone from him at once, something deadly and dangerous left in its stead.

“I don’t think that’s wise,” his voice is steady when he says it, nothing from the frustration from before showing up in it.

Derek gets up from the chair from where he was watching their talk and takes a calming breath, shrugging — the gesture mechanical again, forcing himself into humanly gestures, and this is their past coming back, Lydia just knows it.

“I think I’m the only one who’s evenly matched to you in any way on this planet. We’d be on a more even ground than anyone you could find here, and you could finally let out some energy.”

The room’s temperature drops a few degrees, the decorative plate on the corner table — a gift she brought over — shakes ever so slightly as Stiles measures Hale up.

“You’d be alone this time, General. Are you sure about this?”

Stiles’ voice is full of malice, anger and hate. The way he spoke _General_ is not the same that Lydia has been hearing her whole life — with reverence, with love, with admiration. Something tells her that this _General_ is not followed by _Hale_ , the man who saved them, but by something else.

Hale flinches almost imperceptibly, but stands his ground, even if the red in his eyes dulls to what she can only call a hurt shade for a few seconds.

“I made contact with some old mercenary contacts around town, I managed to procure a cortosi vest. I think it’s enough.”

“We can’t do this at the range,” Stiles says, already going to his room, and coming back with the two hilts she knows are his lightsabers. She has to admit that she is curious to know how they work, and how deadly they _are,_ because images on the HoloNet certainly don’t make them justice, but something in the coldness in the air, in the stiffness of Stiles’ posture is telling her this is a terrible idea.

“Maybe we shouldn’t—” she starts, but Hale turns to her, and he is, in that second, every inch the General she grew up hearing stories of, and she feels very out of place in this room, with these two beings so much bigger than she feels.

“Can you meet us with your fiance in that old field behind the abandoned Temple in a few minutes?”

She can only nod and hurry off, looking for Jakh-Sin as fast as she can.

As far as locations go, Hale is being smart.

Kaleela itself isn’t a big village, the whole town circles around the government building, and sprawls a bit towards the landing strip, because, after all, their main income is mercenaries and their trading. On the other end of the town, there used to be a Temple no one frequents anymore, and behind that Temple, there is an abandoned field no one even remembers what it was used for anyway. It’s an open space of sand, closed off by trees. At this time of twilight, no one would be around, and most people would already be at their homes, or at the bars and canteens, washing down a hard day’s work drinking or eating with their friends. No one would look twice to the middle of the meager forest at the back of a falling apart tiny Temple no one has used in over three decades.

She finds Jakh-Sin at home, and rushes him through the streets, explaining where they are going and why in quiet whispers, and his leathery face looks more pissed off by the second — needless to say, he dislikes Stiles on principle alone because of his Jedi upbringing, and couldn’t even begin to see why anyone thought Hale deserved all the attention and praise he received for something he had done so long ago. He did what Lydia asked because _Lydia_ asked, not because he thought what she was doing was right.

When they get to the clearing, Hale is waiting for them right at the beginning of the line of trees, with Stiles at the opposite side, an almost perfect arena of sand between them.

“Take this,” Hale says, giving her a small beacon, “If things get out of hand, activate it by pressing the green button,” he shows her the correct one, “and throw it between us.”

She must look alarmed, because he shakes his head minutely.

“It won’t harm anyone, it’s just a flash of light. Press the button, throw it at us, and then cover your eyes. The light burst will be bright enough to startle us out of fighting, and it won’t harm us.”

She squeezes the tiny thing in her hand and stares at him in a new light.

“When did you have the time to find this?” she asks, staring at the strangely old fashioned vest covering his torso, leaving his arms bare. The thing looks like common metal, shining in the fading sunlight, the tiny pieces connecting tight against each other, covering all of his chest and the upper part of his hips — his arms, as she had observed before, were bare, and she can now see he still has scars running down his neck. His hair doesn’t go down all the way to his back anymore, as if burned away, but tapers off at the base of his skull much like a human’s. His dark leather breeches seem fit for fighting, something she’s seen many soldiers wear before, and he looks like a warrior, a proper one.

She realizes she wants to see this fight now, even though it still doesn’t seem like a good idea.

“You aren’t the only one planning for the future,” he tells her quietly, before turning around and waiting for Stiles who is steadily making his way towards them.

Compared to Hale, Stiles doesn’t look ready for a fight. He is still wearing his father’s too large white tunic, with the belt cinched at his hips, and his pants tucked into his soft leather boots are more fit for a day walking leisurely around the town than going against the soldier a few feet from him, but he doesn’t look worried — he looks… coiled. Like a spring, ready to uncoil at the slightest touch.

He pulls the two hilts from his belt, the only things he’s been carrying, and hands one over to Hale, who takes it, but doesn’t raise it or turns it on — the kaleesh waits.

“Any rules, General?” Stiles’s voice is harsh, and Hale shakes his head, looking down, and for the first time Lydia thinks he is actually going to lose his temper, but he doesn’t.

“I am no General — that is your rule.”

Stiles’s eyes keep staring at him for a while longer and then he nods, taking a deep breath and casually turning his blade on, running a thumb over a button,  sky blue in contrast with the golden sand.

Hale frowns.

“That is not your blade.”

Stiles turns his back on them then, walking away slowly, and Lydia can feel the cold from before again, making Jakh-Sin take a step closer to her.

“This is Liam’s blade. You’ll be fighting with mine. You’re owed that anyway, aren’t you?”

Hale doesn’t respond, because Stiles stands to the far off of the clearing, and she and Jakh-Sin climb a fallen wall of the temple to a side to watch the fight and not get in the way.

The kaleesh turns on his own blade, and Lydia admires the indigo tone of the blue against the sky one Stiles is holding but it lasts but a second, because Stiles starts charging against Hale, and she fears for the worst — he looks so unprepared against the clear warrior that their general is, like a child playing at swordplay instead of a real swordsman.

Hale parries his attack with ease, and Stiles attacks again, blade going point first against the vest Hale is wearing — she is far, but Lydia can swear she sees him smirking.

“It _is_ cortosi after all,” he tells the man, and then it all changes in a second.

Stiles leaps away to the other corner of the clearing and with a wave, a whole tree comes crashing down on Hale who rolls away on the last second. As he tries to get up, Stiles jumps, the tip of Stiles’s lightsaber misses his torso by a millimeter, as Hale twists to the other side again, defensive as can be.

He tries to attack, one of his legs trying to trap Stiles’s one and trip him, but the younger man is much too fast for him, and he just leaps away and stands, watching, twirling the sky blue blade in his hand.

“I thought we were supposed to train,” he says, voice dripping malice, “I thought you were my match on this planet when no one else was.”

“Train and maim are not the same thing,” Derek retorts, slowly getting up, and Stiles snorts.

“I wasn’t aware you knew there was a difference.”

He waves his hand again and the sand under Derek’s feet rises in a storm, making it difficult for him to see — it’s not thick enough to blind him, but when Stiles charges at him from the right, he misses the tree branch that crashes into him from the left with another wave, and the younger man jumps away again, his eyes shining in dark humor.

He is having fun, and Lydia would be glad by it, if she thought it was _good_ fun, but it isn’t.

Stiles is hurting Hale on purpose for _a reason_. This isn’t just him blowing off steam from his own suffering, this isn’t the equivalent of drinking too much and punching your way through a crowd in a bar because you’re feeling pain: Stiles is hurting General Hale for something he — this man holding Stiles’s own lightsaber — did to him, Stiles, _personally_ , and Hale is _letting him_ , probably because he thinks he deserves it.

This isn’t helping anyone — not if Hale thinks that indulging in his darker feelings may drive Stiles forever into the Dark Side.

“Either start fighting back, or stop embarrassing yourself and give up, Hale. This way all you’re doing is encouraging that thing to think he is an actual warrior,” Jakh-Sin yells without her having to ask or interfere first, but Lydia can detect the fear in his voice, because maybe Jakh-Sin, as thick as he is to normal, common feelings, is more attuned to this Force thing than she is.

Hale gets up once more, and Stiles stares at him, malice in every gesture, in every tiny detail in his posture.

“Maybe I _should_ find out what I would be like as a warrior,” Stiles says then, voice carrying with the wind around them trembling with something angry and ugly, “I was a good Jedi, or so I was told, but clearly not good enough to stop whatever took over and won the war. Maybe as a soldier I could do better. What do you say, _General_? Should I try?” he mocks again, and that settles it.

Hale lets out a howl of pure anguish, his body seeming to unfurl on itself in some inexplicable way — he doesn’t get bigger, he doesn’t precisely grow in any visible manner, but he _does grow_ , as if coming out of some shadow he had been hiding in. From pure red, his eyes flash electric blue once, so fast she could have sworn she imagined it, they go red again, and then back to the bright electric blue the Kaleesh warriors get when they go to war, and his whole poise changes, heavy breathing making his metal vest shift over his chest, bright blue eyes almost matching the blade in Stiles’s hands.

“I said I am no General,” he tells the man, voice soft but commanding, and he yields the blade properly this time, holds the hilt by his side, his feet correctly aligned, eyes on the moving enemy who charges using his every strength against him — sparks fly everywhere, and it is a sight to behold. Blades meet in the middle of the clearing in two very distinct styles, and it is surprising to Lydia to see that Derek is elegance and grace where the former Jedi is brute force and relentless attack.

Stiles moves constantly, attacking without stopping, trying to tire Hale out by not giving him space to breathe, whereas Derek refuses to give him an inch of space without having a reason. He moves in precise gestures and measured strikes, parrying more than attacking, footwork almost dancelike in its beauty — Hale dances a choreography whereas Stiles marches to war, playing his blade like an instrument, as Stiles uses his whole body against him like a single weapon of destruction.

Little by little, however, as the fight gets more beautiful, it also gets less deadly — it becomes less about the hit, and more about the strike. It becomes less about the opponent and more about the movement, and her frantic beating heart can appreciate what little she had heard over the years about different fighting techniques with lightsabers: clearly these are different fighting styles, she just would never have pegged Derek Hale to be the careful, measured one and Stiles to be this aggressive.

As much as his fighting takes less out of him than Stiles’ technique does, Derek Hale has been recently in an accident that could have killed him, and he does turn off his weapon in the middle of an attack, leaving himself open to a deadly strike — Stiles has his own blade coming down on his neck: had he wished, he could have cut off Derek’s neck, and no one apart from Lydia and Jakh-Sin would have been the wiser, but he stops, breathing coming ragged, and turns off his own weapon.

They face each other in silence for a long moment, bright moonlight shining on them, and Lydia notices that Jon Stilinski has joined her and her fiance at some point in observing them from afar.

“Peter taught you _Makashi_.”

She sees Hale shaking his head and giving Stiles back his lightsaber.

“Darth Tyranus trained _it_ in _Makashi._ It’s muscle memory, not really mine, not really anything,” Lydia sees him looking up at them and then back at Stiles, eyes fading from the electric blue into red again as he speaks urgently to the man even though his voice carries and he knows it, “Tell them. Tell them now, tell them everything. Either I’ll come back by morning, or I won’t, but I can’t continue here with them not knowing, and you have a right to decide if you want me here as much as they do, possibly even more.” He pulls out his vest and gives it to Stiles too, who looks bewildered by it, but takes it all the same, “Even if I don’t come at all, keep this. Your enemies have lightsabers too.”

He turns his back, and Lydia, Jakh-Sin and Jon make their way towards the two of them in a hurry, but not before Lydia gets a glimpse of a faded three pointed scar on his back.

“Derek!” Stiles calls, looking scared and fragile for a moment, indecisive on what he is feeling as always, “I—” he hesitates, and the man turns his back again, continues on walking into the forest, and Stiles seems to _make_ himself talk, as if he doesn’t even know _what_ he is saying but knowing he has to say something, “I want you come back,” he tells him.

Hale stops and turns. He speaks louder, more for Stiles and Lydia than any of the others, for they are the only full humans who don’t have better hearing, but they can still see the way his face is contorted in pain as he speaks.

“First I have to see if I can live with myself.”

He disappears into the forest again, leaving them all behind, with more questions than before, and their answers, this time, lie in the hands of the confused former Jedi holding two weapons and a piece of armor that, right now, he doesn’t even seem to know how to hold, let alone use.

“I have given you two weeks, but this ends now,” the Chief’s voice surprises Lydia, but it really shouldn’t — as much as he loves his son, he wouldn’t put the planet at risk because of him or Hale alone, “We are going home and you are telling me everything, Stiles.”

The former Jedi stares at the vest in his hands, and seems to consider, just for the tiniest second, to make a run for it, with just the piece of armor and the two weapons alone, but he takes a deep breath and starts walking back into town.

“I hope you don’t kind spending the night awake, because this is going to be a long one.”

**X**

Stiles has a hard time putting down his weapons and the vest when he gets to the house he shares with Hale, but he forces himself to do it and face the three people in the living room, because he has to. As much as feeling things and mourning, dealing with anger and vengeance hadn’t been the Jedi way, running from things hadn’t been it either, and he’s been running from it all for as long as he’s been in Kalee, and he can’t do it anymore — he’s been running from Hale, who only watches him from afar, and his father, who seems to think he’ll break if he comes too close, or is pushed too hard, and from Lydia, who doesn’t want to push and yet keeps trying, but never too much, never too far.

He’s been running from himself too. He knows what he is feeling: anger, and despair, and fear, and loneliness, and this deep seated worry that the darkness that has been lurking just below the surface will take over and not let him go and he’ll end up twisted and wrong just like that thing inside him when he searched for the Force, that he’ll end up like Jen-Fer, like one more of his Master’s padawans. But this — this he can do, because this isn’t about him. This is about another thing he’s been running from, and now he has permission to deal with.

Jakh-Sin is standing by the door, arms crossed, face uninterested, and Stiles wonders, not for the first time, if the nikto knows how transparent his mask of arrogance is, if anyone else does, or if he just notices because he is used to observing things. His father and Lydia are sitting on either side of the small table, and Stiles sits on the side between them, thanking them with a small nod when he grabs the cup with some herbal mix in it — he’s cleaned himself up after the fight, sweat and blood were all over his clothes, and that wasn’t pleasant. Not only that, but he needed space and time to organize his thoughts. As much as he knows how _dangerous_ General Grievous had been, he also knows he isn’t Hale.

Hale is no General, after all.

He runs a hand over his face, a gesture he now realizes he’s picked up from his father in these few days he’s been in Kalee, and lets out a long breath, thinking things through.

Where to start?

“You are not helping Hale any by dragging this out, Stiles,” Lydia tells him sharply, nails hitting on the table rhythmically, almost  involuntarily, and he nods.

“I know, it’s just very… complex. Everyone in this room knows the war was won by a side we didn’t even know _was_ a side until it was in power, and much like that, Hale wasn’t really _Hale_ , for the duration of his participation in the war.”

He stops again, thinking of a beginning for it — and has to stop a burst of anger when he thinks that the beginning, once again, is within the Jedi Order.

“There was a Jedi, a great Master, a man of great vision, who was discontent with the way things were being conducted within our Order, many decades ago. This was before I was even picked to be a padawan, before the war or any of it even started. He thought that we deferred to the Senate and its politics too much, that we defended too much the worlds with too much money, and thought too little of our true nature as Keepers of the Peace, that the Jedi had forgotten what their true purpose was, what they were meant to be. That the rules that they followed back then, and still followed until they were destroyed, had been made mere decades ago, and weren’t always so, and that rules could be altered and mended and changed. He was discontent, and so he left. He’s known in the Order,” he stops, scoffs quietly, and tilts his head a bit, “He _was_ known in the Order as one of the Lost — someone who _chose_ to leave the Order to become something else. He was very dear to me, and I to him, I believe.” He stops again, takes a deep breath and a sip of his herbal infusion, and bites his lip before facing his father, “That man was Master Jedi Peter. Count Peter, the leader of the Confederacy of Independent Systems. Count Peter did many things that are reprehensible, but also understandable as political maneuvers — what he _couldn_ _’t_ have was his name associated with something as mundane as having droid soldiers answering to him alone, because he had, after all, a whole faction of the war to run. That, I believe, wouldn’t have been a problem — he could have build any droid commander, hired any General he wanted and the problem would be solved, but what most people don’t know is that Count Peter was corrupted by the Dark Side, just as we saw in that HonoNet transmission. He took someone good and fair, and he changed that person, that being, into one of the most cruel, meanest, most dangerous creatures in the galaxy to run his droid Army.”

“No,” Lydia whispers, fast as she always is to catch on to things, and Jon stares at him, almost not wishing to believe, and Stiles goes on.

“There is only one more General who disappeared at the same time Derek showed up here. There is only one General who instilled terror in the heart of the Galaxy at the same time that Derek was taken from you.”

Lydia’s green eyes are wide with fear, and Jakh-Sin has moved to lean on the back of her chair — Jon looks pale and fragile, and Stiles, for once, fears for his father’s health.

“Morgana, who is,” he stops again and bites his lip, exhaling angrily before correcting himself, “who _was_ a Seer — she said I would save him. That I would repay my debt and save him. Maybe this is it. The day General Grievous took over Coruscant, I was one of the three Jedi responsible for Chancellor Uther’s safety — I was there when Grievous and his MagnaGuards took down all the Troopers, all of the Red Guards, two of my best friends, Eri-Ka and Alis-Sen, and spared my life. He let me live when he could have killed me, and—” he shrugs, not brave enough to face the people he’s talking to now, “And now I think I’m asking you to spare him. It wasn’t him. I asked this of Mordred too, I asked this of him, to spare him, to save him, I don’t even _know_ him, I’m not even sure he trusts me, or wants to be saved, but I owe him this for saving me, because maybe there is still something good we can do to repair the damage we both have done. Maybe you can’t, maybe this is too much, and I guess I understand that — I think we both do,” he says with a certain finality to it he isn’t sure where it’s coming from, because he and Hale aren’t a _we_ , he is barely an _I_ by this point, “We are dangerous creatures, he and I — too damaged from the war and our pasts, too unsure of what we are now to be sure if we’ll ever heal, too uncertain of what we are going to do with our future to offer you any guarantees that we’ll be of any use to you, but all I’m asking is a chance to leave in peace if you can’t allow us to stay, and I’ll understand if you can’t.”

Jon opens his mouth to say something, but Stiles stares at him and he keeps quiet for a moment longer.

“Don’t say anything yet, father. Go home, and think on it. Don’t think of your son, think of your people. Of the people Lydia will have to rule in five, ten, twenty years from now, and then tell me your decision. I’m not going anywhere, or doing anything rash until then, I promise. I’ll wait right here,” he tells them, and then he watches as the three of them leave.

When the house is empty again, he turns to the darkest corner of the bedroom, so dark he is sure no one would have seen anyone in there, not even Jakh-Sin and his better vision, but Stiles still has certain advantages.

“You can wait here with me. For better or for worse, we’re stuck together, I think.”

Derek comes out, and they stare at each other after he takes a seat, clean shirt doing nothing to hide the fact that he must have run around that forest for at least half their conversation.

“Did a Seer really tell you you’d save me?” he asks Stiles quietly, but his voice is almost teasing, and Stiles shrugs, staring out the window, and sighing deeply.

“Eh, she did, but I never did put much stock in prophecies. Someone foretold Merlin would restore balance to the Force and…” he trails off with another shrug and Derek snorts.

Together, they watch the sunrise, and together they wait.

It’s probably the one moment o peace they have both experienced in a very, very long time.

**X**

Derek Hale has always been a man of action, which is a contradiction in and of itself, because for a man of action, he acts far too little.

He gets things done, make no mistake — but he never, ever, gets them done for _himself_. His driving force has always been something else or someone else. Nowadays, he can barely remember a time when he was young and actually had dreams of his own, particular desires, things he dreamed for his own life to drive him forward: when the Huk first attacked and he joined the Army, it all became about revenge, and winning, and the war, and then about Kalee and its glory, its honor, and its subsequent survival — and then ten long (or very short) years of nothingness.

Of the Clone Wars he remembers nothing. As he had told Stiles, it’s all muscle memory: he has the knowledge of things that happened, he knows of facts and dates and commands, but they don’t feel like memories, they _feel_ like information, as if he had read them all from a disk or a tablet somewhere, and stored it in his head for later consultation. As if the data itself had been programmed into him, and not that he had lived it, and maybe that _is_ what it is. But he doesn’t know if he can _explain_ that to the people he hurt.

Derek’s been accumulating information these past few days, as Stiles paces and despairs, and learns how to feel like a person, and not like a Jedi. As Stiles unlearns his training, Derek is trying to understand his own inner working, and he’s been searching everything he can about General Grievous, and the results are staggering — he wasn’t just evil, he was death personified. No other being could claim he was as efficient, because even the meanest, evilest Sith had sentiment on its side, anger, or hatred, or even the sadism to torture, but for Grievous the satisfaction relied only on getting the killing done. He was built as a killing machine, and that is what he did with maximum efficiency, and Derek doesn’t know if he can live with that. Even going back to the house, sitting beside Stiles who has all but promised his own father and only living friend that he will follow him out of Kalee if they can’t accept him, he is still trying to truly decide if he can do what he is trying to accomplish, to separate himself from the monster he was encased in for ten years.

He isn’t sure that is possible.

He isn’t sure there _was_ a true Derek Hale before that for him to go back to — there was a General Hale, but he isn’t that man anymore, because that man died on a crashed ship, on an arranged accident, to become the most efficient killing cyborg to ever be seen.

Much like Stiles, he needs to become something new to survive — but, unlike Stiles, his only enemy is his own past, and his own fears, and his own lack of knowing how to face himself.

He is afraid.

He is so very afraid, not only for Stiles himself, but for the people of Kalee, because if Stiles should turn, if the thing that rears its ugly head from time to time and shines behind Stiles’s amber eyes should take over and win whatever battle Stiles is fighting, the Dark would get a powerful ally, and the people in Kalee don’t _know_ enough, they don’t _understand_ enough, and Derek hopes they never will.

Much as Stiles said before, they are creatures of war, he and Stiles. They know too much about what’s out there, in a way that the people of Kalee don’t, because Grievous, maybe in General Hale’s very last gesture, made sure that it was left out of everything that mattered, be it good or bad, in that war. They were protected, and therefore ignorant, of the true damage a being as powerful as Stiles could do, and Derek feels it’s his responsibility to at least _try_ to help him, to find his way out of this darkness taking over, before giving up on anything else: himself included.

Which brings him to his main conundrum about his very self — he is a man of action who never does anything for his own benefit, only others. Maybe he shouldn’t, but it is a way to even out a little of the damage he’s done — it won’t undo even a tiny percentage of it, but it’ll ease his soul, so, if they’ll allow him to stay, he’ll stay. If they want him to go, he’ll go and accept Stiles’s company with him, because he does think he’ll be able to, at the very least, contain him.

Derek isn’t sure what Stiles is thinking, or why he is so sure they should stick together — maybe this Seer made a bigger impression than Stiles is willing to admit, or maybe he thinks he owes it to Mordred. Maybe it’s something he thinks he owes General Hale from before for saving him, or maybe it’s just who Stiles is — after all, Derek doesn’t _know_ Stiles, but he’s willing to accept it for what it is right now: a sign of companionship, even if neither of them can call it friendship just yet, and maybe they never will call it that, because he’s _hurt_ Stiles. Deeply.

“I asked Merlin to save you, even before I fully understood what Peter had done to you.”

The voice startles him out of his thoughts, and he jumps a bit, making Stiles snort, but the younger man marches on, seeming decided to get this out before the others can make up their minds on whether or not they’ll be allowed to stay.

“I knew it was you in that room — I knew it was you, trapped inside that armor, and I also knew it wasn’t the same General who saved me, but something else. I understood there was a difference, and I did want to hurt you earlier, because there is something inside me _screaming_ for blood, _begging_ to be let out and allowed to hurt something, anything, anyone, and you were the closest target, but don’t think for a second that I don’t know you are not Grievous. I know. I understand that. I may have trouble feeling that every once in a while, but, rationally, I do know it, as I think you do too, and, if you allow me, I would like to try and help you, as you have been trying to help me.”

Derek doesn’t answer for a long moment, but Stiles waits — he fidgets, hands hovering around, fingers dancing around his belt, where Derek knows the hilt of his lightsaber would be, but he waits as Derek parses out an answer that is true, and not only something that he can say to pass the time.

“I want to believe I can be helped,” he says, finding, as he has been doing much these past few days, his voice strange — so quiet, and soft, and calm. His breathing has no sound, his steps are as soundless as he can make them. He knows this is what he is supposed to be like, and yet it feels foreign to him, “But I’m a stranger to myself in more ways than one. I don’t… I’m not the man I was when I was General Hale. I don’t think I can be him again, because that sense of honor and duty is lost somewhere between killing hundreds of thousands of beings just because I could and not remembering any of it, and yet, rationally, I also know I am not the monster Tyranus created. I do know that — I don’t even _remember_ that properly. I have memories, _some_ memories, but as if I had read them somewhere and memorized them, not as if they are my own. I don’t know who I am, and I don’t know _how_ to be some _one_ , so, I want to believe I can be helped, and that is why I came back to this house, and I’ll stay if they’ll allow it, and I’ll watch over you until you send me away, get me killed or kill me yourself, but I’m not sure I can be helped.”

It’s Stiles’s turn to be quiet then, and stares out the window for a long moment, processing the information, and when his answer comes, it’s very short, and very to the point, but said very quietly, like a secret.

“I understand.”

And the thing is that Stiles quite possibly _does_ understand because he, too, has been unmade and is now redefining what it means to _be_ anything at all.

He nods, agreeing, and quiet settles over them again.

“We could head to Takodana,” Stiles says after a short while, and Derek contains a sigh, thinking that this new Stiles isn’t very good at the contemplative, quiet side of things, “If they decide we would be putting them in danger, we could head to Takodana. The Sep who helped me escape Felucia headed over there, and the smuggler who got me here caught cargo there.”

Derek turns very slowly to Stiles, an eyebrow raised, his faded red eyes frowning in confusion.

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying it’s a start! It’s not like we’d have _no_ where to go, we have Takodana. The Galaxy is a _huge_ place, I’ve been all over — blast, you’ve been all over too, you just don’t remember it, and you seldom landed. If Haruun Kal hadn’t been so damn filled with Jedi, and therefore wouldn’t be so watched by the Empire Forces, we could go there, and try to find some work or something — last I heard Christopher Argent was still governor over there, he was a good man, he could help us.”

“Help us _what_?”

“Find a job or a life or something to that effect,” Stiles answers, hands flying about in front of them, as if gesturing to all the things in the universe they could catch if they wanted, “I’m not sure what people _do_ , but they _do something_ , and people need _other people_ so I’m referencing _other people_ to help us _be people_.”

“Please, _stop_ ,” Derek asks, not sure what is _this_ inside his chest, this… bubbling sensation, as if he is falling from a height that isn’t dangerous enough to hurt, just enough to make it interesting.

“I’m trying to help us, Derek. It is our duty. It is the thing we do now, because we are going to help each other be people,” Stiles is focusing then, as if committing his plan to memory, and Derek shakes his head, but keeps staring, because it takes him a long time to remember this feeling, this sensation, this rush of emotion, but he does remember it now: fondness.

It has been a very long time since he has felt fondness for anything or anyone, but this strangely broken creature beside him, with enough darkness inside him to level this entire planet, and yet planning on turning them into real people by searching for jobs in smuggling hot-spots has brought it out on him without even trying.

Stiles isn’t special because he was once a Jedi, or the child they took from Kalee, but because of this: because he cares, and he brings out the best in people, and even if the Chief and Lydia decide they have to leave, he cannot think of anyone else in this Galaxy he’d rather be lost in the worlds with.

**X**

They decide to regroup to decide what to do about Stiles and Hale in four hours, and head to their own homes to sleep.

In less than three, Lydia is back at Jon Stilinski’s house, a carafe of strong caf in hand, an extremely tense Jakh-Sin in tow.

The three of them sit around the small table in the kitchen, each with a mug in front of them and try to make the decision that will possibly affect the future of their whole planet for the years to come, because harboring a Jedi fugitive was bad enough, but _General Grievous_?

There’s silence for a good fifteen minutes, until Jakh-Sin breaks it by setting his mug on the table with a strong sigh.

“I vote they stay,” he starts, and Jon and Lydia both look at him in different degrees of surprise, “I know I don’t really get a say in this, but I think they should be allowed to stay. Blast, I actually _trust_ Hale to handle an Army now instead of relying on past glories — he clearly knew what he was doing during the war, and the Jedi needs someone to watch him.”

“I didn’t think I would be the one arguing this point tonight, but,” Jon says, voice filled with regret, “I’m not sure we _can_ allow them to stay. The Empire would make our lives difficult for harboring Stiles, that’s for sure, but we could always count on the people’s support on the fact that he is my son. Even if he should be found here, he would be the one taken away, and me for helping him, and no one else would have be involved, that was always my plan — even if, truth be told, I always counted on no one ever finding out. But that was _one_ fugitive, _one_ person we had to hide, but _two_? And _Grievous_?”

“I know he killed a lot, but he was a competent General!” Jakh-Sin argues, making Lydia look like she wants to smack him on the head.

“That is not the point. The point is that with the way the war ended, everyone on either side of it is guilty. Separatists and Republic _both_ are to blame for all of it — the Jedi are on one side, and Grievous is on the other: we’d be caught in the middle, with no ground to argue. If we’re helping Stiles, a former Jedi, then how can we help Grievous, a Separatist General? The Empire would wipe our whole planet out just to ensure the peace, to make an example out of it, we’d have no choice but to surrender them both, and accept death.”

They contemplate that  for a long moment.

“ _If_ they were ever discovered,” Jakh-Sin says after the pause, staring at Jon, more than Lydia, because he knows that Lydia wants them to stay, she’d be an easy sell, but Jon is a tougher choice — not because he doesn’t want to help his son, but _despite_ of it. He is probably trying to argue his way into sending Stiles away just so he won’t be the one to ask for him to stay, because he has to be Chief Stilinski first, and a father later. He hasn’t had to do this in over two decades, and it’s clearly tearing him apart, “Who’s looking for Grievous anyway? Has there been any kind of reports on him at all lately?”

He turns to stare at Lydia, who frowns, thinking back on the past few weeks, but she doesn’t remember anything — in truth, no one’s mentioned the cyborg in the news or anywhere else.

Maybe they don’t want anyone to know he’s dead so he’ll be a threat, or maybe they just don’t count him as human enough to be reported in fancy HoloNet transmissions like Kings and Princesses of Camelot.

“He hasn’t. I think the last big report on him was the day he managed to invade Coruscant, and after that, silence — and even that, we even received that transmission only a day before Hale got here.”

“So, only us and Stiles even know what he is. Melissa could possibly figure it out if she really put her mind to it, but let’s be honest, she won’t, because she has better things to do than analyze armor she doesn’t even have anymore. And we won’t be talking. _Hale_ won’t be talking. Not about himself,” Jakh-Sin shrugs, his lizard-like face a mask of disdain, “It won’t really take a genius to figure out that Stiles used to be something _other_ than a regular soldier, but there’s so much weird crap out there, that very few people will think _Jedi_ when they look at him — or at least they will if he loosens it up a little, and starts behaving like a person. We’ll have a chance at an Army again, a defense, which is something I sense we’ll actually need, if any of that Darkness crap the two weirdos keep talking about is true, and I have a feeling it is.”

Jon lets out a weary sigh, facing Lydia when he opens his blue eyes.

“What do you think?”

Lydia bites her lip, and Jakh-Sin keeps quiet, because he knows how the love of his life works better than anyone else — if he should talk now, to try and influence her in anyway, she wouldn’t decide at all until she could clear her head, because she refused to be swayed by him or anyone but her own, rational opinion, at least when it came down to Kaleela and their people.

It wasn’t easy, their job, hers and Jon’s — to decide the people’s future without them knowing most of what was going on and hoping for the best. In times of war, they tended to blame the war, but now things were going to get a lot worse, or a lot better, and Jon and Lydia would be blamed or lauded for either, and she had the duty to help decide what that would be now.

“I want them to stay, but I don’t know if that is a decision I’m making because I think it’s a good decision, or just because I want them to stay,” she says quietly, eyes worried as she faces her mentor, “I can think of a thousand reasons of why this is a terrible idea and a thousand reasons of why this could be the greatest thing to happen to us, and I can’t make up my mind without letting my feelings get in the way.”

Jakh-Sin scoffs, breaking up what he is sure would be a very intense, emotional moment between the two rulers of Kalee, but he is always uncomfortable with those.

“I have no feelings for those two — at least no _positive_ feelings. I sure am grateful Hale saved Lyds, but that’s as far as I’d dare go; and Stiles annoys me, I’m not sure why — no offense, Chief. So maybe you should listen to me. Let them stay.”

Jon and Lydia trade another long look, and Jakh-Sin waits.

Looks like Stiles was right, it is a long night after all.

**X**

For the past hour or so, Stiles has been dozing off. He has his feet up in a chair, arms crossed over his chest, as the chair he’s sitting on is precariously balanced on its two hinder legs, his head tilted to the side, mouth slightly open, the sun coming in every time the curtain flutters with the breeze coming in from the window making his pale skin glow anew, a little bit more golden each time as the sun rises over Kaleela, and Derek waits, keeping watch.

He knows the former Jedi isn’t really sleeping — for one, he doesn’t think it is physically possible for anyone to actually fall asleep and sustain such a position during sleep, and for another that at any unexpected sound, his eyes fly open and to the door, alert and awake in a flash, so it’s not real sleep, but a restless slumber he’s been in, instead of fretting and planning — or maybe fretting and planning just internally.

What Derek does know is that if they have to go, Stiles has a plan ready. He already has a place for them to go, and a route for them to take, and even a cover story of how and why they are going there. He even has some aspirations of seeking out Christopher Argent, and seeing what’s his opinions on the outcome of the war, and maybe see what they can do about it, which, for Derek, is all well and good.

He doesn’t think he is quite ready to handle things in such a large scale yet. He’s content in handling the part in which Stiles doesn’t let himself be overcome by his own darkness, and allow Stiles to worry about where they will go and how. Sounds like a plan to him.

With being awake for over forty hours, he has a feeling anything at all would sound like a plan to him, truly.

Stiles’s eyes finally open once more, even before Derek hears the steps, and then he turns too, to see Jakh-Sin casually leaning against their door, leathery face smug in the morning sun.

“You two losers can stay,” he says with a wink, and leaves.

Slowly, Derek turns his back to the door, and stares at Stiles who stares back, not fully comprehending if the nikto was joking or if this is serious.

“Was he telling the truth?” Stiles asks him, but before Derek can answer, Jon does.

“He was, you two can stay. We…” he trails off and sighs, clearly exhausted, “We’ll talk more after everyone’s rested, but you two can stay. You do, however, owe us an Army. That is the trade off. You can, of course, choose to leave. But if you stay, that is our condition.”

He turns and leaves, as if that last bit of conversation had taken whatever energy he had left, and then it’s just the two of them again.

They can stay.


	6. Purpose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Think of Rondor and Alix as Bail Organa and his wife.
> 
> Yeah.

**Purpose**

Here’s the thing about the deal Derek and Stiles make to stay in Kalee: neither of them actually have the faintest idea of how to _build_ and Army.

Both of them had, indeed, been Generals in the war — Derek had even been two different kinds of General — but when it came down to it, neither of them had ever had to build anything from scratch, to actually start anything from anywhere. They had been handed down armies to rule, and they had done it extremely well, but that is about it.

When they decide to stay for good, when they sit down with Lydia and the Chief to talk and accept their generous offer for them to stay in exchange of building them back their Army, however, that is a small fact they both leave out — not really on purpose, but because it doesn’t dawn on the other that they were both on the same position until much later. They agree to start on their plans the following week, and ask to take a few days to rest and regroup, which they sorely need, not really physically, but emotionally. In theory, they also imply those days are for them to star drawing plans for the Army.

And then they get home, sit at the tiny little table that is technically Derek’s, but apparently it’s now theirs, stare at each other for a very long moment, until Stiles cracks first.

“You have no idea where to start, do you?”

Derek raises an eyebrow at him in challenge.

“And you do?”

Stiles shrugs, wincing slightly.

“Credit?” The wince deepens when he realizes that yes, they do probably need money, it is the best way to start hiring personnel and gathering weapons — it is probably the one thing Kalee lacks more than anything else.

“So in exchange for protection, we promised to start an Army that we don’t know how to create, train, or arm, have no funds to pay for, or weapons to furnish it with, on a planet that hasn’t had a real Army in about… twenty years,” Stiles nods, as if agreeing to himself as he speaks, “Did I leave anything out?”

“If we give ourselves away we’ll get killed and possibly get everyone on the planet wiped out too,” Derek adds, and Stiles keeps nodding.

“Nice. Good. Great, even. As long as the odds are that good,we’re… You know, good.”

Stiles manages to actually sit still for about two more minutes, and then he grabs a tablet on a table and starts tapping away at it, apparently making a list.

“We _can_ do this, we just have to get _organized_ ,” Derek snorts at that, but doesn’t interrupt the other man, just allows him to continue, “Okay, I’m gathering that you don’t really remember anything useful from your time managing those useless machines, and even if you did, they were command oriented, and not useful experience for a real Army, but you _did_ command an Army here before,” Stiles says, glancing up cautiously as he speaks, and Derek inclines his head in agreement, letting the comment about Grievous slide.

“I did command them, but the structure, the weapons, it was all already there. All I had to do was follow what had already been working — plus, we _had_ a common enemy, something to fight for, and inspire those man. Their land was being attacked, their families needed to be defended. We don’t have that now. It’s going to be a much tougher sell to start an Army with no great promises of pay when the War has just _ended_.”

 Stiles lets out a huge sigh, and runs his ands through his already messy hair — his compulsion for being tidy and neat seems to have evaporated along with his Jediness, and Derek isn’t complaining. The Jedi were the enemy for so long that looking at this common man is much easier than staring at the sorry attempt Stiles had been of mimicking one.

“What _moved_ them back then?” he finally asks, staring straight ahead, eyes far away, as if contemplating their options in the far off future, and it freaks Derek out a little bit, but he reigns it in.

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t remember a lot from back then, I was four, after all, but I do remember the people at the Temple whispering about fierce warriors and the courageous Army we used to have. How brave and honorable our fight had been until politics had been involved. If there’s one thing I learned fighting in a war for ten years is that you don’t win battles just by paying your soldiers and barking out orders, you have to inspire them, you have to have their trust, their friendship, their admiration, or their respect. _Something_ has to move them. We worked mostly with the clones, but we worked plenty alongside the people from the worlds themselves, and the battles always worked better when something we did or said made them _believe_. Something back then moved that Army in a condition that is very similar to this one, maybe even worse. We had nothing back then — the Yam’rii were taking our people, selling them into slavery, sacking our villages, burning their remains into the ground, and yet we could have won this war if the Jedi hadn’t interfered. What made our people believe back _then_ that our Army was worth it? Because _that_ is what we have to search for and bring it back. Not money, or weapons, or even the training proper, but the cause to join against, to fight _for_. Without that, an Army on a planet like this is a waste.”

“They had the Huk to fight against, Stiles,” Derek replies, almost tiredly, not liking where this could lead them, “We don’t have a direct threat now.”

“We do have a threat, though,” Stiles points out in a quieter tone, making Derek sigh, because that is _exactly_ what he feared, but the former Jedi just shakes his head, “I know, Derek. I’m not saying we form an Army on Kalee to fight against the Sith or the Dark Side or whatever, I wouldn’t be that stupid. But I do think my point is valid — without a common enemy, or a common goal, there is no point to this, because lacking monetary incentive, there is no way we can make an Army happen on this land.”

Derek considers that for a moment, inclining his head just the tiniest bit, conceding Stiles’s point again — they do need _something_ to make people want to defend Kalee. A common enemy would be easy, bu then again, it would be trouble. He doesn’t even know _why_ Lydia wants an Army on this land so much, unless she is actually afraid something is going to happen and is hiding it from them.

“Lydia was right before,” he starts, and Stiles looks at him with an eyebrow raised, waiting, “About us needing to be seen, to mingle, to be… _out_. Right now, we’re foreigners — you even more so than me, because people have the memory of what I was once, but they don’t even know you. The one thing we could use to gain you their favor would be the fact that you are the Chief’s son, but we can’t use that. We need to stop being outsiders, and become Kaleesh in their eyes.”

Stiles is quiet after that for a long moment, looking down, and shaking his head slightly — maybe it’s because he is getting used to it, or maybe it’s because after being in his constant presence for so long he’s started to pick up on the nuances Stiles’s behavior has, but Derek can swear he feels the slight shift in the atmosphere around them.

“We are not, though,” Stiles says, very quietly, “We are not Kaleesh, we are not one of them, and we are not making up an Army because we believe in it, we’re doing it to save our hides, and not get killed.”

There it is — that darkness, that hollowness that the others haven’t seen yet, and Derek fears more than he would fear facing the whole population of Kalee armed against him.

“Stiles—”

“I’m not saying we should give up, but… It’s very hard to build something we don’t believe in, Derek.”

Derek keeps his silence, weighing his options, trying not to let the sudden coldness in the room freak him out too much.

“I don’t remember what believing in something feels like anymore, so I’ll take your word for it,” he ends up saying, and Stiles’s focus changes in a second, eyes going wide.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine. I’m just pointing out that not all people work like you. Maybe you need something to believe, and maybe all the Kaleesh need is to see something in their future apart from being away from the war.”

“So we’re back at square one.”

Derek runs his hands through his hair and sighs — he is tired. So tired. He doesn’t remember feeling this tired in ages.

“No, we have a start, we just need to… mingle.”

“You said that word as if it were a contagious disease,” Stiles points out, and Derek ignores him as he gets up, and starts pulling things to set on the couch, so he can sleep, “I’m just saying, you can’t even _say_ the word without looking as if you’re going to throw up, how’s the mingling actually going to go?”

Derek scoffs quietly.

“Well, maybe you can teach me, you’re great at it, right?”

Stiles doesn’t deign him with an answer, choosing to go to the only room of the house instead, hopefully to sleep too.

They sure need it.

**X**

Stiles has been afraid before, and it’s not a foreign concept for him — fear, after all, is a part of being a sentient being, but he is used to letting that feeling go, and replace it with meditation, calm and peace, because that is what the Jedi _do_.

He can no longer meditate, because that is half of what is causing his fear. He remembers well, so many years ago, when Master Deaton told him about the padawan who found the Dark inside himself and never came back, and he _knows_ that part of the Dark and chaos he found withing the Force is the war, but part of that is also _himself —_  the one person from whom he can’t actually escape.

He can’t find peace, because it’s simply not there — maybe whatever concept of peace he used to have never really existed, he isn’t sure anymore. He isn’t sure about anything: the ground has been shaken underneath him and it broke apart. He fell somewhere he doesn’t know where it is, and doesn’t know how to get out of it, or even if he wants, or needs, to. He sees little point to anything at all, but then again, he’s just lost his whole life, the very thing that gave him structure to be himself. Part of him is forever gone, and he doesn’t know if this hollowness he feels is ever going to go away, filling itself up with something else, or if he’ll sense this loss until the day he dies.

Stiles is very, deeply, afraid of himself, and of what he can do.

Never before had his prowess with the Force been a cause for concern — of pride, maybe, even though it was discouraged in the Order — but he did know he was powerful, and a skilled warrior. A good Guardian, with the means to be great one day, maybe even join the Council at some point down the road. But he had a lead before, a leash to keep him within limits, something to guide him, Masters to advise him when he started feeling out of sorts, and now he has nothing and no one.

It’s clear that his father would do anything for him, and Lydia is trying her best to help him along, but they have no idea how much Darkness he carries within him, they don’t fully realize the kind of damage he can do right now if he let it all out. Derek seems to be the one person to fully perceive that, and isn’t it ironic that the one person he was promised to save is the one grounding him right now, lending him whatever support he can — Stiles wants to believe it’s because he cares, not even about Stiles himself, but about the planet who took them in, but he isn’t sure. Derek isn’t a full person right now either, he is still adjusting.

Their grasp on life is so very frail, and so very breakable. The Darkness that drove him into goading Derek in the arena, in trying to actually _hurt_ him, that was whispering in his ear that he deserved to die, that they all did — Lydia for having the life that should have been his, his father for letting the Jedi take him, Derek for killing two of his best friends, Jakh-Sin simply for being there, shouting poor insults at him: anything and everything was a reason for them to die, to go, to disappear. He doesn’t know what brought him back from that edge, probably Derek finally attacking back, his moves, the way he fought — everything in him reminded him of Peter at that moment, and he could see, clear as day, Peter’s blue eyes telling him the Order was corrupt and wrong, that Stiles shouldn’t trust everything they said. A lesson lost on a five years old child, but that he now can understand and appreciate fully.

He doesn’t want to go back to being a Jedi, even if he could, that is not the way this is supposed to go, the Force shouldn’t be used like they did it, and yet, it couldn’t be allowed to drown in Darkness as it was now.

Jedi don’t have all the answers, they never did, but the Dark Side doesn’t either, and he doesn’t want to let himself fall down that hole, because he knows there is no way out. He’s standing on a ledge on his tip-toes, trying his very best not to fall in, but sometimes all he wants to do is jump.

And then Derek is there, holding him back just by understanding him.

He isn’t really sure about how normal people relationships to each other are supposed to work, but he is quite certain that this isn’t it — he holds Derek to his humanity, and Derek stops him from falling into Darkness, as if they are too broken to be a single person each, and so they join together to have the strength to work.

It’s not perfect, but by the stars, does he appreciate the help Derek is giving him.

Sleep eludes him even as he manages to calm himself down a bit, his brain racing through possibilities and things he has to understand, to discover about himself and what role he has to play in his own life now — he’s never had this kind of problem before, there had never been an _I_ to consider, but a _We_. The Order, and not Stiles Stilinski, and that made a huge difference. As a part of something as big as the Order, it always seemed as if his life had a purpose even when things were falling apart — but now, on his own for the first time since he can remember, no something bigger for him to be a part of, he feels lost, and tiny, and afraid.

He wouldn’t go back, however. Thinking on it now, seeing the way Lydia cares about her people, and how hard his father works to keep Kalee from falling into oblivion, and how much Derek is struggling to relearn how to be a person again — just by watching everyone around him, he wouldn’t go back, he knows that now, deep in his heart. Peter was right, even though he didn’t make the best choices, and that is a pit he will try his best to avoid: Peter had the best intentions, but the Dark twisted that into a monster who created Grievous and left Derek a shell of a person. He still remembers the weight of Jen-Fer’s body in his arms, he still remembers the pain in Master Deaton’s eyes as she threw herself from that wall, he remembers his own, immature and childish promise to bring her back — the Dark Side isn’t the answer either.

The Force is about balance — that is what the prophecy foretold, that is what Merlin, as their Chosen One, was supposed to have brought them, but the Light was too prideful to see that the Dark was a part of that balance.

He would have to find a way to live in between — a new path, a harder one, since he had no idea how to trail it, but it is about time he stopped waiting for orders, and made something of himself.

**X**

Their sleeping schedule isn’t the most regular, and when they do manage to fall asleep the sun is almost rising again, so it isn’t surprising that when they wake up, the day is almost over again.

“You know, if we want to be people again, we should start sleeping like people too,” Stiles tells Derek as they prepare something to eat.

Derek grunts in acknowledgment, but doesn’t give him a verbal answer, which is just fine with Stiles, as he didn’t really expect one anyway.

“We should go to the canteen after this. Meet people, try this mingling thing, see how the population is facing the end of the war, get some news of the world out there.”

That makes Derek pause, and he turns to stare at Stiles for a moment. He waits for Derek to be ready to start speaking, even though he knows what he’s going to ask.

“Are you sure you can handle it if someone starts saying bad things about your Order?”

“I don’t have an Order,” Stiles answers him with a casual shrug, taking a last sip of his caf and putting the cup in the sink, “Plus, we need to get started, or Lydia will throw us out, and as much as heading off to Takodana is a plan, it’s not one I actually plan on testing, at least not for now,” he pauses and turns, staring at Derek again, “What do you say?”

Derek sighs, shrugging.

“As long as you promise not to kill anyone.”

“I promise not to kill anyone unless they try to kill me first. How does that sound?”

“Good enough,” the older man mutters, but Stiles smiles just the tiniest bit. It’s fun to wind Derek up, and he’s not really sure why.

After getting ready, they head off to the canteen in companionable silence. The place isn’t packed, there are still a few free tables here and there, and they pick one in the back, in a corner, where the two of them can watch the entrance and the whole place around them.

People, Stiles reflects, after they’ve placed their orders, are strange. There are some that stand out among the crowd — Kira, the canteen owner, looks small and fragile, but there’s something about her that is putting Stiles in alert, something dangerous even though her smile is sweet and her eyes seem kind.

Malia, who he knows owns one of the stores in the village, doesn’t try to hide that she _is,_ indeed, dangerous, her blaster gun is showing at her back, and she sits on her own, watching her girlfriend work, but keeping to herself mostly.

There is a huge man who seems to be trying to hide, even though Stiles is pretty sure it would be impossible based on his size alone — he looks kind and focused, even though his face is serious and uninviting. Near him, there’s someone else Stiles can’t help but notice, but not in a good way — a man around his age, human at least in appearance, blue eyes and black hair, who seems to be listening in in everyone’s conversation without taking part in any. He smiles easily at Kira when she brings him drinks, nods at the right people — even Stiles’s own father when the man comes after they’ve been there for a while — but something about him just seems… off. Stiles can’t pinpoint it, but he wouldn’t turn his back on that guy for anything.

It’s calm in the canteen, easy — nothing is really expected of anyone when they are in their place of rest like this — but of course, this being Stiles’s life, it couldn’t last for long.

The HoloNet is, once again, going through their news cycle of disaster and Jedi hunting, and Stiles’s heart skips a beat when he sees the people on the screen.

“What is it?” Derek whispers when he notices how still Stiles had gotten, and Stiles nods at the screen, but doesn’t talk.

 King Rodor stands on the screen beside his wife, Alix, and they watch as bodies are dragged and deposited in heaps in front of their home. His face is frozen in shock, it seems, and caution. There’s some anger in Queen Alix’s face, but it’s all too fast for people who don’t know them to notice.

But Stiles does know them. He knows Rodor from the Senate, from many sessions in the Council, and many encounters through Coruscant. He knows the man by fame if nothing else, distrusted for his political views, too liberal, too fond of speaking out his mind, even when his views were opposed to those of the Senate or the Chancellor.

For him to comply with all this killing on his home planet, to nod, and obey, and watch as bodies are dragged through his streets, for him and his wife to allow such atrocities in their own capitol, something must be very, deeply wrong.

He turns slightly to explain to Derek who those people are when the man he had been watching before speaks up.

“Blast those Jedi anyway!”

Oh, well, Stiles knew there was a reason not to like him.

**X**

Jon isn’t sure he made the right decision when he allowed Derek and Stiles to stay in Kalee, but now it’s a done deal, and he must face whatever that brings them. He tried to reason things out, and leave the fact that Stiles is his son out of the equation, even though he knew both Lydia and Jakh-Sin could see right through him, he still hoped that, if it came down to it, the other two would be smart enough to see that keeping them in Kalee was far too dangerous.

He just didn’t have the heart to tell his son he had to go.

As a cautionary decision, he and Lydia decide to give Stiles and Derek two days to gather their bearings again before they are expected to have some sort of plan for an Army. To tell the truth, Jon isn’t exactly confident any of them knows what they are doing — as much as in his head he _knows_ they are both Generals of the war, they know they fought and braved through things he can only ever have nightmares about, he still looks at the both of them and sees two completely lost young men. He is perfectly aware of how dangerous that is, of how big a flaw that can be in his plans to kick them out should trouble arise — they are not harmless, damaged boys, but seasoned warriors. Lydia told him about the encounter she had with Derek, and what he had said about Stiles, and his son is apparently a ticking time bomb, waiting to explode. Derek is one of the greatest killers the Galaxy has seen, and none of that points to lost little boys, but he looks at them and sees children in pain, and all he wants to do is help.

It’s the curse of getting older, most likely.

Their deadline for resting and getting themselves together is tomorrow, and Jon decides there is no way he is facing the expectation sober. He heads to the canteen after solving some more issues in Kaleela — and those are bound to grow, now that the war is over — and is surprised to find both Derek and Stiles sitting on a table by the corner, sipping something out of metal cups, and trying very hard to look as if they belong there.

Something in them doesn’t really fit, though — they are far too _big_ for Kaleela, maybe even Kalee as a whole. They are dissonant to the rest of them, something always feels foreign, and Jon starts to despair that maybe he won’t have to worry about what will happen if they are discovered, because they will get bored and leave.

It would break his heart in a thousand pieces, all over again, but it would also solve many of his political problems right now.

He doesn’t approach them — he can’t, or better yet, he shouldn’t. That is not his son, but a companion of Hale’s, and he can’t trust himself not to call him son when he sees him up close — after all, he doesn’t know for how long he will have the chance, and every minute he doesn’t, is a minute wasted as a father, and he has already wasted so long.

Taking a seat at the bar itself, he turns his back at them, and orders a drink. People greet him, nods and claps on the back, the usual response to his being in the canteen, and he sighs deeply, trying to let the tension bleed from his body.

He almost manages to accomplish that too, if it weren’t for the news on the HoloNet — now that the war is over, news doesn’t travel so slowly, this may be only a day or two after whatever is going on out there reaches them, but this is the kind of news he wouldn’t like to be seen on his planet ever, if at all possible.

The shadowy figure they had seen days ago is again at work. The caption beneath the image reads “TERRORISTS CAPTURED ON NEMETH.”

On screen, things don’t look so much like _captured_ , and more like _murdered in cold blood_ , but he guesses that for the Emperor there may be little difference between the two. The piece of news goes on to tell about some Jedi trying to hide on planet, but its rulers not granting them safe passage, and doing _the right thing_ , and calling on the government enforcement to capture the would-be refugees. Jon stares at the face of their King, and has to consider that the man looks more cautious than anything else. By his side, his wife has her head held high, with that poise that seems to embrace all of those who come from the Albion Sector and their strange customs.

Jon has to look away when they show again the images of the battle itself — this could happen to them, at any time. Nemeth is a rich planet, on a rich sector, and look at what happened to them. Kaleela wouldn’t stand a chance.

The Chief isn’t brave enough to look up at Stiles and see what he is thinking of it — maybe some of the people on that screen had been his friends, comrades in arms, teachers, students, people he saw every day, and who were now dead by the hands of the Dark Side. He just hopes he’ll have enough sense to keep quiet.

“Blast those Jedi anyway!” someone exclaims in the middle of the bar, and Jon closes his eyes, counting slowly, and trying to stop his heart from exploding from his chest — _just hold it in, son_ , he thinks almost desperately, _just hold it in_.

“Blast the Jedi?” comes the answer, and Jon lets out the breath he had been holding — there goes their cover.

He turns around, and sees Stiles still sitting — he looks angry, but not in an any way that would give away the fact that he’s anything other than a soldier coming back home from war — or at least following a friend back home. He has a deep frown on his face, and Derek is staring at him as if he’s a dangerous animal, but doesn’t move to stop him.

“ _Just_ the Jedi?” Stiles continues, and Jon raises an eyebrow — where is this kid going with this?

“They did start this war!” the person who had spoken before says, and Stiles leans forward on the table, making Jon stretch his neck a bit to try and see who he’s talking to — it’s a newcomer, just a few months in Kalee. His name is Theo, and he is human, as far as anyone can tell. A charming boy, but something in him is always angry, always looking for an excuse to start a fight, and then run away from it when things get too serious.

“A war isn’t fought if there’s only one side,” Stiles answers, his voice controlled, but not really calm — Jon can sense a whole storm brewing behind his tone, “If there was only one side it would be a massacre, not a war.” He points at the screen, where the bodies of fallen Jedi and Troopers are lying on the ground in Nemeth, “ _That_ is a massacre. What we have _now_ is only one side. The war was hell, but don’t think for a second that the Jedi were the only ones to blame for it.”

“Are you defending the Jedi?” Theo’s voice is incredulous, and Jon almost jumps out of his skin when he hears Stiles’s laugh — not a humorous sound, but bitter and mocking.

“I’m not defending anyone — that is kind of the point. Look at that screen, can’t you see the bodies on the that ground? Can’t you see those are not _just_ Jedi in there? People from Nemeth got killed in killing those Jedi run-aways. Troopers were killed, the Emperor’s own Army got killed, do you think they care? Do you think that thing over there would care if it had to wipe out an entire planet to get to one Jedi? Because from where I’m standing, it doesn’t look like it would.”

Whispers start going around the canteen, and Jon can see people turning to stare at Stiles and Derek on that corner, curious and yet cautious.

“All I’m saying here is that the Jedi kept the war up for ten years because the Senate wanted to, and the Seps spent ten years fighting a war they knew they couldn’t win. Ten years we have all suffered and gone through hell so that the war would be over — but what we can see now isn’t peace, it’s just regulated slaughter. Now it’s the Jedi, and when all the Jedi are gone, who’s going to be next? Who will have a target painted on their backs so that the rest of the Galaxy feels afraid enough that they don’t fight back, don’t try to defend themselves for fear of being the next enemy? Do you really think the Emperor cares about Kalee or any of you, any of _us_?” Stiles pauses, seeming to want people to let that thought sink in before continuing, “The Albion Sector is where Uther Pendragon came from, they are one of the most well connected, most respected sectors in the whole Galaxy, and look at what they’ve done just to catch a few people they _say_ are Jedi, but who can really tell? It’s not like they walk around with a sign on their foreheads advertising it. For all we know, any of you could be a Jedi, and we wouldn’t know until that thing came in here and started killing,” he pauses again, getting up this time, leaning on his hands, looking around the canteen, _knowing_ everyone is listening to him now, “Do you think any of those rich planets, any of those credit filled politicians is going to raise a single finger to defend us if anything were to happen? Kalee would be doomed,” his eyes seek out Theo’s again, and he tilts his head to the side, a small, mocking smile on his lips, “So you say blast the Jedi, I say blast them all. We are all screwed if we don’t take care of ourselves, because _they_ certainly won’t.”

The canteen is completely silent after that, but Stiles doesn’t look intimidated — he sits back down, takes his cup and sips, but his eyes are on the crowd the whole time, watching and analyzing the effect his words had on the people there. Derek doesn’t move from where he is, looking mildly angry and slightly annoyed, which is how he always looks these days, until someone laughs.

“What do you propose, then? That we revolt and kill anyone who dares set foot on Kalee? No one wants to come here anyway,” Malia says, her voice clear in the room, and Jon sees Stiles shrugging and setting his cup back on the table.

“I propose we find a way to be ready to defend ourselves when trouble comes. I haven’t been here long, and this isn’t my home, but from what I’ve gathered, you have all stayed out of the war by a miracle. I wouldn’t count on a miracle to keep you safe for much longer.”

“What are you saying?” Kira, Malia’s girlfriend, asks, a frown on her face, as people start discussing their situation in whispers again.

“He’s saying we should reestablish an Army on Kalee,” Derek finally chimes in. His voice is soft and calm, but everyone quiets down again to listen.

“With you as General,” Theo says, voice already mocking, and Jon can see Stiles frowning.

“He does have the experience.”

“Says you, the guy who came here with him. Why are you so worried about Kalee, anyway? You’re not even from here.”

“And you are?” Stiles questions, but doesn’t give him a chance to answer, “I’m from nowhere, my home is gone because the war took it, and I have nothing left. I don’t want to see that happen to anyone else, anywhere else, if I can help it. Having an Army here seems to be the sensible thing to do — or do you really trust _them-_ ” he points at the screen, where a score of Stormtroopers are marching somewhere, “- to keep you safe?”

“Is that even possible?” Malia questions, “For Kalee to have an Army again, I mean.”

Stiles shrugs and leans his chair on the back legs, a tiny smirk on his face.

“I don’t know, but Chief Stilinski is right there, why don’t you ask him?”

And that is how Jon finds himself surrounded by his people, fending off questions about an Army he isn’t even sure could work, and doesn’t even realize Derek and Stiles have slipped away until they are already gone.

**X**

“You could have warned me,” Derek whispers as they head back to their house. His tone is angry, but Stiles isn’t really scared — there are far worse things in life than an angry Derek Hale.

“How? I didn’t plan on doing that.”

“Still—”

“Derek, we needed a common enemy, and a cause they could unite against, and we gave them that.”

“ _You_ gave them that.”

“I wouldn’t have even been listened to if they didn’t think I came here following you, anyway. They still respect you, and I know you are not that man anymore, but we can use that. I saw an opportunity to make this work, and I took it. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but it’s very hard to tell you things when I don’t know I’m going to do them.”

Derek stops walking at that, and Stiles stops too, crossing his arms over his chest and waiting. The other man frowns at him and comes impossibly close, talking very quietly so no one will hear them, and Stiles swallows dryly, because he isn’t used to people being this close to him.

“Is that how you led your life as a Jedi? Spur of the moment decisions?”

“No, I lived by organized scheduled, and planned battles with armies that never ended, because if our soldiers died, we could just make more,” he whispers back, advancing a tiny step, both of them now standing so close their foreheads are almost touching, “I’m trying to step away from that, mainly because we have no Army yet.”

Derek’s eyes flash blue again, and Stiles blinks in surprise — the red fades the tiniest bit around the corner, and he can almost see hazel behind the angry flashing.

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” Lydia’s voice comes, and they jump apart — Stiles swears if he had a weapon, Lydia would be smoke right now. He turns to look at her irradiating irritation and isn’t even sure why, “I was hoping we could meet tomorrow morning. Chief Stilinski called me and it seems as if you volunteered to propose an Army in our planet again. Would that be ok?”

Her words are formal and distant, and Stiles realizes this isn’t for _them_ , it’s for whoever could be watching them.

“It would be fine,” Stiles answers, nodding, “We’ll just be getting home now, then. Good night,” he tells her, grabs Derek by the arm, and keeps walking.

He feels like laughing all of a sudden, a sudden flash of his father’s face in the canteen, looking at him as if he wanted to twist Stiles’s beck because of what he pulled, and yet filled with fondness all the same — he had never seen a look like that directed at him before.

“He is going to kill me,” he whispers, and Derek turns to look at him, first with worry, but then calming down when he sees Stiles is laughing.

“Who?”

“My father,” he answers, warmth spreading through his chest when he says that, he laughs quietly, “We left him in the middle of a storm back there, and it’s my fault. He’s going to kill me, I don’t have to worry about the Emperor’s Army.”

Derek scoffs and shakes his head.

“He did look put out, but he’ll get over it. He’s getting his Army after all.”

They walk in silence some more, bypassing the house, and heading to the arena behind the old temple without having to talk about it, just knowing they wouldn’t be able to fall back asleep, and that sparring might do them good.

“I _am_ sorry, by the way,” Stiles says, and Derek glances at him quickly in question, prompting him to explain, “For not warning you back there, it just seemed like the perfect opportunity and—”

“I know. It’s okay,” Derek tells him quietly, “I have a feeling that won’t be the last time you do that anyway.”

“What? Make a speech to inspire people to start an Army? Because it definitely will,” Stiles answers, but the other man shakes his head.

“No. Causing trouble without telling me, and then dragging me into it with you.”

They finally get to the arena as Derek says that, and Stiles stops, turning to face Derek.

“You okay with that?”

They stare at each other for a long moment, and then Derek nods.

“I’m okay with that.”

“Good,” Stiles tells him, looking down and away, before going to the middle of the arena — no lightsabers this time, just good, old-fashioned sparring to tire themselves out.

Fighting against Derek seems to be easier than understanding whatever is going on between them.

**X**

The next day, they only bother to change their clothes and head to the government building to meet with the Chief. Stiles is a bit nervous because, well, he did put his father on the spot the day before, and while at the moment it seemed not only fun but also useful, now he’s beginning to doubt this was the right choice — the man _is_ the political leader of the planet they are seeking asylum in, after all.

Life is easier when he is not thinking on political terms.

As they walk the streets, people nod and wave — not only at Derek, but _at him_ , and he nods back, a bit disconcerted. Whatever impression he made last night changed the people’s perception of him, he just hopes this is all for the best. He hadn’t taken into account the fact that if he were to start an Army beside Derek, people would notice him, talk about him, and _to_ him, and he would be known in Kaleela. That is dangerous territory, because so far, he isn’t really sure people know his name — he is quite certain they’ve been calling him General Hale’s friend since he arrived, but how many of them would be able to put two and two together and see who he really is?

Finally, they arrive at the building, and he decides not to think on it yet, because it’s useless to worry about such things: people will think what they will, and they will talk, and there’s nothing he can do to control that. He has to let go of this notion that every damage is containable, that every move has a counter move, and just let things go, or he’ll work himself into a state of constant panic, and that is never good.

His father is looking annoyed when they enter, and Lydia has her back to them, so he thinks maybe this isn’t going to be good.

“What you pulled last night—” Jon starts, but Stiles puts both his hands up to defend himself.

“Look, I know it was unplanned, but we needed something to unite this people against, and it was just the perfect moment for it. It’s not like I _planned_ that, it just happened. Well, I could have helped you out a bit better at the end there, but it just seemed so right to say that last sentence and vanish, so…” he trails off, and looks to the side, noticing that Lydia’s shoulders are shaking.

“I hope you’re not considering a career in politics,” Jon says with a tired sigh, and Stiles starts speaking again, but his father keeps talking, so he quiets down, “Because if that is what you do with _no planning_ , I’m scared to think of what you’d actually accomplish if you had the time to think things through.”

“I did grow up in Coruscant, sir,” he points out, but his voice is light, and he’s containing a smile. By his side, Derek is quiet, but not in a nervous way, and it helps calm him down too — as a kaleesh, if they were in danger, he would be attuned to it, “ _Some_ politics was bound to sip in.”

His father shakes his head again, and then throws a list at him. Stiles stares at it, showing the list to Derek, who reads the names on it over his shoulder — Kira, Malia, Boyd, Theo and at least twenty other names are all on it.

“What is this?” Derek asks, and Lydia finally turns around to answer, a smirk on her lips.

“A list of people who have already signed up for the Army you’ll be commanding,” she pauses, leans against the wall behind her, voice controlled, but they can see she’s extremely pleased by this turn of events, “Stories of the two of you spread since last night, and people are of the opinion that our planet does need some defense against _everyone_. I don’t know if I should hit you for making my people paranoid or congratulate you for a game well played,” she says the last part staring at Stiles, and he nods in appreciation.

“I wasn’t just making it up — I really don’t think the Empire would move an eyelash to help us in case we need it. I wasn’t lying.”

“We know. That is why we wanted the Army in the first place. But you played it well in making it known through yourselves that you think we have to fight for our land, it’ll give people confidence in both of you, and they need that if they are to follow you.”

“See?” Stiles says, turning to stare at Derek, “I _told_ you all that. I told you. I was right.”

“I never said you weren’t,” Derek points out very calmly.

Stiles huffs, and stares at the list again.

“So, now what? We have your permission to start an Army, and twenty people to train?”

Jon nods slowly.

“More or less. We have no real weaponry, but most people on the planet have their own to carry around. Assess them, see what you can do with whatever they have — word will spread and more people will join, I’m sure of it.”

“Our prime objective here is defense, anyway, not any sort of attack, so our soldiers won’t have to be _just_ soldiers,” Lydia adds, “Which, at least at first, will help us with the lack of credit to pay for their services. Maybe with time, now that the war is over, trading will pick up again. Kalee has been in a vacuum for ten years, but there has to be something we can do to improve our commerce.”

Stiles and Derek trade a look at that, because part-time soldiers are better than none, but it isn’t what any of them would have chosen at any rate.

“Well, I can’t really help with that, but we can start training the volunteers we do have now,” he stares at the list again, “Can we veto them? If someone isn’t good enough, or if they don’t adjust, can we not accept them?”

“Why do you ask?” Lydia questions, and Stiles just shrugs a bit, debating on whether or not to tell her — on the one hand, there is no reason not to, on the other, they might think him too suspicious or superstitious to be at the head of an army.

“The man who talked yesterday, the one who prompted the whole thing,” he starts, and Jon nods in agreement.

“His name is Theo,” he says.

“There’s something… _off_ about him. Something I don’t trust,” He looks again, and sure enough, Theo is on the list, among the first to have volunteered, “Why would he even try and join the Army here, if he’s not kaleesh?” Stiles continues, frowning.

“By your cover, you aren’t kaleesh either,” Lydia points out, but Stiles only shrugs at her.

“But I am their General’s right hand, which makes me a part of something, and gives me an excuse to want to fight. What’s this guy’s story?”

“We don’t question people who come here, Stiles, as long as they don’t get into trouble, don’t bring us trouble, and have the credit to pay for their own things,” Lydia points out, and Stiles smirks at her a bit.

“Is that why you question me? Because I don’t fit into any of the three you just mentioned?”

“You weren’t this annoying before, what happened?” Lydia asks, her tone almost teasing, and Stiles shrugs the slightest bit.

“I’m becoming a person.”

“His person is very annoying,” Derek adds quietly, voice giving nothing away, but Stiles just rolls his eyes and lets the comment roll off of him — he pretends he doesn’t notice how tense Derek is getting with every passing second, or how Lydia doesn’t come near them now that she knows who he had been before.

He knows it can’t be easy for them, but if _he_ can get over that and put it in the past, so should they. Derek kept them safe for longer than any of them know, and it’s not fair that he is being treated as a foreigner now just because of who he had been.

“We should talk to Melissa… That’s her name, right? The nurse?” he says, seeing Derek nodding, “We should talk to her and see if she would be willing to give our first batch of volunteers training in first aid healing during a battle. This way they can help the next ones better, maybe even train them. What do you say, Derek?”

Derek stares at him for the longest second, and then he nods, turning his back on the room.

“I’ll go talk to her — meet you back at the house?” he asks, and Stiles nods at him, watching him leave, giving him time not to be able to hear anymore before turning on his father and Lydia with an angry frown.

“If you let him stay, _you let him stay_. His past stays behind just as mine did, and that is it. If you can’t do that, say it now, and we won’t even start this Army, and leave. I know our odds aren’t the best, but Derek doesn’t need this right now.”

“Stiles, what Grievous did—” Lydia starts, but Stiles cuts her off rudely.

“ _That_ is not General Grievous. That is Derek Hale, and they are not the same. Derek doesn’t even remember most of what he did as Grievous, he has no real memories of even being him, and you keeping yourselves away like that is not going to help. You have no idea what he’s gone through, but he’s willing to help you, and he _has been_ helping me, so either get over it, or tell me now if you can’t.”

“Maybe it’s easy for you to forget, Stiles, but what that cyborg did—” Again Stiles cuts Lydia off, this time with tears in his eyes — part anger and part frustration that they are making him think about all of this again.

“That cyborg killed two of my best friends in front of me. Eri-Ka died, impaled by a staff his MagnaGuards carried. Alis-Sen died by my side, thinking I was dead too. They were my first friends at the Temple, the first people who believed in me outside my Master, and the ones who always had my back inside the Order, who never doubted me for a second — and you’re telling _me_ it’s hard to get over his past?”

Lydia looks pale then, and she puts her hand over her mouth, shock in her green eyes.

“If _I_ can get past that, you can too.”

“I’m so sorry, Stiles, we didn’t know, or I wouldn’t have suggested you stay with him.”

“It’s not him, Lydia! It’s not the same, understand that, if nothing else — they are not the same. Derek has no memory of being Grievous. What he _does_ have is ten years of his life gone from him because it was stolen away. What he does have is a scar on his back from armor imbued in his flesh controlling his every move, his every thought. What he does have is the need for people to look at him and see _Derek_ , and not a past he can’t remember, and not General Hale, who died before the war started. Derek and Grievous are not the same person, because Grievous wasn’t even a person to begin with. And if you can’t treat him like a normal person, then maybe we shouldn’t stay after all.”

“You would really go with him, wouldn’t you?” Jon asks, his voice curious, and Stiles turns to stare at him, having almost forgotten the man was there in his haste to admonish Lydia.

“I would.”

He would, he probably will, if this conversation keeps veering off the path they had set — Derek is the one person keeping him grounded, and he needs that right now. Maybe it’s because he is the one link between his life in Kalee, his life as a Jedi, and now whatever it is he’s becoming, but he wouldn’t leave Derek on his own, and he knows Derek wouldn’t either: they have each other’s backs, and this is something Stiles has always valued, now more than ever.

The silence stretches between them, and Stiles sighs, sets the list on the table, and takes a deep breath.

“Do you want us to go?”

Lydia and Jon trade a look, and Stiles holds up his hands, as if he’s surrendering.

“Look, we promised we’d stay and help, and stars only know how long we’ll be able to hide if we leave. Stars only know how we’ll manage to leave at all, because we have nothing, but if we stay, you have to accept us for what we are _now_ , and not whoever it was that we’ve been before. My past with Kalee is void, it’s a blank — I’m not proud of it, but I hadn’t thought of this place for years. It took a stranger pointing out to me that once I had a home, that before being a Jedi I used to be a person, for me to remember Kalee, and that is what brought me here. Do you think Kalee was left alone in this war because of luck? That the Separatists, knowing how you were treated, knowing your past with the Republic, wouldn’t have taken that as a prime opportunity to take this planet over, even if it was just as another victory? Who do you think kept you safe, even as he didn’t even remember his own life, who he was, or what he had been doing — _he kept you safe_. And you repay him by flinching when he talks to you because a Sith turned him into a machine without his consent.”

“We didn’t mean to. _I_ didn’t mean to,” Lydia says — it’s not an apology, but Stiles inclines his head all the same.

“I know, but you did, and he doesn’t need that. He… _We_ are broken, Lydia,” he tells her, honesty coloring his tone, even as he smiles sadly at her, “I’m not sure we’ll ever be put back together right, but whoever we were before all of this happened is behind us now.”

“So you’re saying that if you were given the chance, you’d stay here instead of going to join other Jedi who might still be out there?” Jon asks, his tone disbelieving.

“I’m saying I’d try to help them, but the more I think about it, the more what Lydia told me rings true: what kind of Order serves peace through war, and cares more about political mandates than people? The Jedi weren’t right, just as the Dark isn’t, and I’m not sure what I’m doing here, but I do know Derek is a part of it, and I want to stay — I really do, but if you can’t bear to have him here, then we’ll go, and we’ll understand.”

“You got a whole Army started the first time you attempted something, son,” Jon says, curiosity in his voice, as if he can’t fully comprehend Stiles right now, “Do you really think we wouldn’t want you on our side?”

Stiles shrugs.

“I really don’t know — I don’t understand people as much as I’d like, but I do know that if I stay, you treat me and Derek the same. I could be every bit the monster you think he is — you don’t know what the Jedi have done in this war.”

He waits, until Jon sighs, and hands him the list back.

“You have a job to do. They’ll be waiting for your notice of when to train, and where you’ll meet.”

Stiles nods at them and leaves, more troubled than when he had come in — he hadn’t thought of how knowing Derek’s past would change people’s behavior towards him, because he had made his peace with it even before Grievous had stopped existing. He can see now that he was ready to let go and accept that Derek is a different entity than Grievous ever since he asked Mordred to save him, and it hadn’t occurred to him that other people might not have the same ease accepting and understanding that as he does.

He heads a little aimlessly towards the hospital and meets Derek already leaving. The other man stops and stares at him, and right then Stiles’s heart breaks a little more, because he looks disheartened.

“So? Is she willing to help us?” he asks as they start making their way to the canteen.

“Are we going to need her help still?” Derek replies.

“We will,” he pauses, not wishing to talk about something like this in the middle of the street, but also knowing that trying to bring Derek home for them to talk it out would probably not work, “I talked to them. I don’t think they understand what you went through, and I think it’s unreal for us to hope they would understand much of what is going on out there, of what the war meant. In a way, they are too…”

He stops, not knowing how to continue.

“Too innocent,” Derek supplies, and Stiles nods in agreement.

“They haven’t seen what we have, and I think it hinders their judgment a little, in this respect only. They are trying, just as we are trying, and if it doesn’t work out, we’ll leave.”

They keep walking slowly, silence not uncomfortable between them, but weighing on both.

“How long do you think?” Derek asks, and Stiles glances at him in confusion.

“How long until what?”

“Until the world outside comes raging to our doors, and they lose their innocence too?”

Stiles looks down, not having considered this before — Lydia and Jon and every Kaleesh who had spent the war in Kalee: they were probably the last innocents in a world of war and pain, and it’s only a matter of time until they lose it too, whether Stiles and Derek stay or not. Truth is that it wouldn’t matter in the end — the Empire will find its way to Kalee now that General Grievous doesn’t have any more accords with the Separatists to keep them away.

“Hopefully long enough for us to put together an Army that will, at least, put up a fight before failing miserably.”

Derek scoffs, and they keep walking in silence, each lost in their own thoughts.

It doesn’t even surprise any of them that it doesn’t occur to them to leave the other behind — they are a package deal now, it seems.

**X**

“You don’t think it’s strange that Stiles is able to forgive a man so easily like that?” Lydia asks as soon as they see Stiles walking on the street below them, and Jon sighs deeply before answering — he wishes he had an answer to give her. That he would know his son just because this is what he is: his son. But that is not how this works, and hoping it was so won’t bring him anything but disappointment.

“I think he doesn’t see them as one and the same, and that is what he is expecting us to do,” he replies, and the woman frowns, still staring out the window, watching the former Jedi make his way into their city.

“They are giving us what we asked for,” she says, reasoning more to herself than for Jon’s benefit, he knows, and he lets her talk thing out with herself, “And he seems safe enough now,” she pauses, turning around and staring at Jon, “Do you think we made a mistake, allowing them to stay, giving our people hope again? They already started sympathizing with Stiles, they have always respected Hale.”

“It’s hard not to sympathize with the person who looks at killers and tells everyone to blast them all, Lydia. Neither of them are looking for power here, they don’t know what they are looking for, but I’m quite sure they won’t find it here.”

“You think they’ll take off and leave us without our Army?” She sounds almost offended, and Jon contains a small laugh.

“No. I just think that whatever fate they have on their path is way too big to be found in Kalee, and I hope it doesn’t. This is a small planet, with few people who care for it — we can’t afford great destinies and grandiosity in a land of much sand and no credit.”

“You were hoping they would leave before getting involved in our lives,” she says, and Jon shakes his head, not really in denial, but pondering.

“Not exactly. I just have this feeling in my gut that we feel like we are giving them a chance, and we are giving them a cause, but in truth, it’s us who have been swept along and caught up in _their_ lives now,” he sighs again, looking out the window with Lydia by his side, “We invited two forces of nature into our homes without realizing it. By this point, I’m just hoping we’ll all survive the tide.”

**Author's Note:**

> [Come say hello and send me death threats about the things I haven't updated, they always motivate me!](http://darkjan.tumblr.com/)


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